MMA  WOLF 


BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


CAUF.  F1CT1QH 
COLLES1IDH 
NOT  FCH  USE 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  LOVE 


H 


BY 

EMMA   WOLF 

AUTHOR  OF  "OTHER  THINGS  BEING  EQUAL' 


—"As  wind  along  the  waste, 
I  know  not  whither,  willy-nilly  blowing  " 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1  894 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TKIE   P/,//CR(5FT   UE 


A  PRODIGAL  IN   LOVE 


CHAPTER  I        •„      :;.t  J.  j  J  \J  V  '• 

"  You  will  grant,"  said  Brunton,  as  they  paused  be- 
fore Rembrandt's  "  Head  of  a  Boy,"  "  that  these  trans- 
parencies of  the  flesh  are  marvellously  acquired  and  nat- 
ural. The  color  upon  the  cheeks  seems  almost  to  waver 
with  life.  You—" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  conscious  that  his  companion's 
attention  was  directed  in  another  quarter.  Following 
his  gaze,  he  saw  that  it  rested  upon  a  trio  moving 
toward  the  great  Millet  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 
Brunton  leaned  lightly  upon  the  hand-rail  with  a  look  of 
expectant  pleasure  in  his  quiet  eyes. 

The  two  girls  hanging  upon  either  arm  of  the  young 
woman  seemed,  despite  their  animation,  to  be  deferring 
their  opinions  to  hers.  She  was  undeniably  noticeable, 
though  her  attire  was  dark  and  extremely  simple.  She 
was  tall,  and  with  a  round,  mature  figure  which  she  car- 
ried with  unconscious  stateliness.  A  black  straw  hat 
rested  upon  her  mass  of  gold  braids  and  shaded  the  pale 
ivory  hue  of  her  face.  Her  expression  was  deep  and 
thoughtful ;  the  air  of  youthful  deference  which  the  girls 
evinced  appeared  in  natural  keeping  with  the  strong  per- 


?HAft%i  rWVi 

sonality  which  marked  her.  As  she  turned  to  speak  to  a 
distinguished -looking  old  gentleman  who  had  accosted 
them,  the  girls  dropped  their  hold,  and,  wending  their 
way  through  the  crowd,  made  a  hurried  dash  toward  the 
picture  before  which  Brunton  and  his  companion  still 
stood. 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey !"    they    exclaimed,  standing   still    at 
1  •- '.   '."      sig.bt  if  t^o  farmer. 

*  *    *   •*      V,y^e  yanleci^to  get  another  look  at  this  lovely  boy 
:  :':,';  'Jje'forfr  we  .leave,'"*'  continued  the  younger,  a  tall  school- 
girl, with  a  warm,  animated  face  and  voice,  "  so  we  left 
Constance  for  a  minute  while  she  talks  to  Mr.  Glynn. 
We're  in  love  with  him,  aren't  we,  Grace  ?" 

"  With  whom,  Edith,  the  boy  or  Mr.  Glynn  ?"  asked 
Brunton,  looking  with  friendly  amusement  from  her 
bright  face  to  the  gentler  one  of  her  sister. 

"  With  the  boy,"  answered  Grace,  a  shy  smile  dim- 
pling her  mouth.  "  His  cheeks  and  lips  are  as  soft  and 
flushed  as  if  he  had  just  had  a  nap.  He  looks  so — kiss- 
able." 

"  That  expresses  it  better — eh,  Kenyon  ?  This  is  Miss 
Grace,  and  this  Miss  Edith  Herriott — Mr.  Kenyon,  girls." 

They  looked  up  with  rosy  cheeks  to  acknowledge  the 
salutation  of  the  tall  stranger. 

"  Am  I  possibly  speaking  to  the  cousins  of  Severn 
Scott  ?"  he  asked  in  a  full,  deep  voice,  his  dark,  glowing 
face  holding  them  fascinated. 

"  Why,  yes  !"  Edith  bubbled  forth,  delightedly.  "  And 
are  you — can  you  be  Hall  Kenyon  ?" 

"  Oh,  Edith,"  expostulated  the  quieter  girl,  flushing 
over  her  sister's  irrepressibility.  The  stranger  smiled, 
showing  his  handsome  white  teeth. 


"You  have  guessed  it,"  he  said,  courteously.  "Mr. 
Brunton  wished  to  confute  some  of  my  Eastern  esti- 
mates of  the  Far  West,  so  he  brought  me  in  to  see  your 
loan  exhibition.  I'm  moving  slowly  in  the  direction  of 
your  residence  as  per  promise  to  Scott." 

"  We  shall  be  glad,"  returned  Grace,  with  shy  pleas- 
ure ;  and,  as  Edith  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve,  she  nodded 
swiftly  and  darted  toward  the  entrance,  where  they 
joined  their  former  companion  and  passed  on  out. 

"  That  was  an  unexpected  flash,"  remarked  Kenyon, 
moving  slowly  on  with  Brunton.  "  I  intended  calling  on 
Miss  Herriott  to-night.  Have  you  ever  noticed  how  a 
contemplated  action  will  evolve  something  associated 
with  it  just  before  the  consummation  ?  Oh,  by  the  way, 
can  you  tell  me  who  was  that  young  woman  with 
them  ?" 

"  That  was  their  sister,  Miss  Herriott." 

"  Ah !"  After  an  indistinct  pause  he  rejoined,  "An  un- 
usually beaut — handsome  woman.  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  their  legal  adviser." 

They  walked  from  picture  to  picture,  and  finally  came 
out  of  the  warm  rooms  into  the  crisp  spring  atmosphere, 
and  turned  briskly  up  Montgomery  Street. 

"  I've  heard  a  great  deal  of  these  Herriotts  from  Scott," 
pursued  Kenyon,  suiting  his  long,  nervous  stride  to  Brun- 
ton's  leisurely  gait.  "  Their  history  is  quite  unique,  I 
think.  The  father  killed  himself,  did  he  not?" 

"  Exactly  ;  and  without  reason.  He  was  a  strangely 
excitable  man,  and  lost  his  head  at  a  sign  of  disaster. 
Once  imbued  with  an  idea,  he  was  not  to  be  stopped  in 
his  course.  His  individuality  might  be  described  as  the 
Chinaman  expressed  the  locomotion  of  a  cable-car :  '  No 


pushee,  no  pullee,  go  like  hellee.'  He  had  made  an  un- 
wise speculation  in  grain — not,  however,  at  all  ruinous — 
and,  through  overlooking  two  significant  ciphers,  he  sent 
a  bullet  through  his  head." 

"  I've  heard  it  all  before — a  somewhat  selfish  perform- 
ance for  the  father  of  a  large  family." 

"  There  was  no  egoism  in  the  act.  The  egoist  is,  at 
worst,  thoughtful.  He  had  lost  his  balance  entirely ;  he 
was  practically  insane." 

"  His  daughter  does  not  impress  one  as  having  inher- 
ited the  tendency." 

"  You  refer  to  Constance — Miss  Herriott.  She  is  quite 
different,  by  virtue  of  her  position  —  the  guardian,  you 
know,  of  the  family.  But  Herriott  certainly  perpetuated 
himself  in  one  or  two  of  the  younger  children.  Where 
are  you  going?" 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Pine  Street,  and  Ken- 
yon  came  to  an  abrupt  stand-still. 

"  I  promised  to  meet  Joscelyn  up  here  at  his  club  at 
four  o'clock.  I'll  be  at  your  office  without  fail  to-mor- 
row to  see  about  that  title,  if  no  other  inclination  inter- 
venes." He  laughed  lightly  as  he  moved  off.  "  Well,  so 
-  long." 

With  a  nod  the  two  men  separated. 

Kenyon  would  have  more  thoroughly  appreciated 
Brunton's  characterization  had  he  been  a  witness  to  the 
little  scene  enacted  in  Eleanor  Herriott's  bedroom  at 
about  half-past  eight  that  evening.  She  had  been  dress- 
ing for  her  first  ball,  and  the  children  sat  waiting  in  eager 
,  expectation. 

As  she  moved  into  view  there  was  a  long  sigh  of  ad- 
miration. The  Herriotts'  admiration  for  one  another  was 


quite  undisguised ;  they  expressed  it  with  an  utter  disre- 
gard as  to  what  others  might  think  of  their  family  fa- 
naticism. They  were,  however,  equally  frank  with  their 
disapproval,  being  heedlessly  imprudent  in  pronouncing 
words  which  rushed  to  their  lips  on  the  impulse  of  an 
impression.  Honest  praise,  however,  seldom  hurts ;  like 
a  pleasant  cordial,  it  sends  a  grateful  tingle  through 
the  coldest  blood. 

Edith,  perched  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  clapped  her 
hands  in  applause. 

"Oh,  doesn't  she  look  lovely !  Oh,  Eleanor,  I  wish  I 
were  grown  up !" 

"  Look  at  her  hair ;  it's  a  heap  of  fire-flies  there  with 
the  light  on  it,  her  cheeks  match,  and  her  eyes  are  torch- 
es ;  the  men  will  light  their  wits  at  them.  She  looks  as 
though  she  would  burst  into  flame.  She'll  surely  be  the 
belle." 

"Keep  still,  you  silly  girls.  Constance,  put  a  pin  in 
that  rose  in  my  hair,  or  I'll  dance  it  out.  There !  Now 
while  I  put  on  my  gloves  you  can  give  me  praise  galore ; 
I  like  it." 

She  stood,  a  young,  graceful  figure  in  white  satin,  un- 
der the  chandelier.  The  deep  red  rose  in  her  bronze 
hair,  the  glow  upon  her  cheek  and  lip,  the  restless,  flash- 
ing gray  eyes  charmed  as  does  a  flash-light  in  a  dark 
night.  In  the  pause  which  followed  her  words,  she  turned 
to  Constance  in  demure,  laughing  expectancy. 

"  Well,  Constance  ?" 

"Beautiful,  dear,"  came  the  ready  answer,  in  the 
low,  tender  voice.  "  I  feel  very  proud  of  you  to- 
night." 

The  younger  girl  threw  her  a  kiss  and  swept  her  a  deep 


courtesy.  Then  she  turned  to  the  quiet  little  figure  stand- 
ing with  her  arm  around  Constance's  waist. 

"  Want  to  see  me,  Nan  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  just  stoop  a  little."  The  tall,  flower-like  head 
bent  within  the  child's  reach,  and  Nan's  fairy-light  fin- 
gers moved  from  the  rose  in  the  hair,  over  the  exquisite 
face,  touched  the  slim  young  shoulders,  and  passed  over 
the  simple  fashioning  of  the  gown.  This  was  Nan's 
sight.  "  You  must  look  like  a  tiger-lily,"  she  said,  as  she 
finished  her  inspection. 

"  Take  care,  she'll  spring  at  you,"  cried  Edith,  from 
her  perch.  "  She  does  look  sort  of  tigerish,  doesn't  she, 
Constance  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  bit  fierce,  Edith,  to-night." 

"  No,  but  you're  wild." 

"That's  not  fair,"  put  in  Grace,  critically  regarding 
her  sister  askance.  "  You  are  only  too  bright-looking. 
You  should  go  veiled ;  you  hurt  people's  eyes,  like  the 
sun.  Catch  a  little  of  Constance's  moonlight  beauty." 

"Moonlight  fiddlestick,"  returned  Constance  with  a 
laugh,  as  she  straightened  a  loop  of  ribbon  on  Eleanor's 
shoulder.  "  Don't  dance  yourself  to  a  bundle  of  rags, 
Eleanor.  You  do  so  exhaust  yourself  with  enjoyment. 
Live  to  repeat  the  tale." 

"  Of  my  gown  ?  It  will  get  soiled  at  the  first  round. 
Is  that  the  carriage  ?  Mr.  Vassault  said  they  would  be 
here  before  nine,  as  he  is  one  of  the  Reception  Committee. 
Look  and  tell  me,  Edith." 

"  Bring  us  your  favors,"  they  cried,  while  Constance 
hooked  the  soft  white  wrap  about  her,  "  and  be  sure 
to  be  the  belle.  Good-night !  I  hear  Mr.  Yassault's 
voice  in  the  hall.  Have  a  good  time !" 


"  Hush,  girls,"  remonstrated  Constance  ;  "  you're  mak- 
ing an  unconscionable  noise."  And  she  hurried  down 
after  the  white-robed  figure. 

"  No,  I  won't  come  in,  thank  you,  Miss  Herriott,"  said 
Vassault,  with  a  good-humored  laugh  at  her  invitation. 
"  My  wife  says  she  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  keep 
me  talking,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  incur  her  august 
displeasure.  Ready,  Miss  Eleanor?  And  looking  as 
lovely  as  ever.  I'll  see  that  she  accepts  none  but  eligi- 
ble favors,  Miss  Herriott,  and  that  she  bestows  her  own 
in  official  corners.  We'll  see  you  at  Mrs.  Glynn's  recep- 
tion next  week,  I  hope." 

"  Perhaps.  Mrs.  Glynn  takes  a  refusal  as  a  personal 
affront.  Good -night.  Thank  you  for  taking  care  of 
Eleanor.  Enjoy  yourself,  dear." 

She  closed  the  door  softly  behind  them,  lowered  the 
gas,  which  was  flaring  at  full  height,  and  ran  quickly  up- 
stairs. 

"  Let  us  clear  up  this  litter,"  she  said,  entering  the 
large,  untidy  room  where  the  children  were  still  congre- 
gated. "  Grace,  hang  this  gown  away,  will  you  ?  Edith, 
put  those  things  straight  in  the  bureau  drawers,  and  close 
them  while — " 

"  Call  Betty,"  advised  Edith,  with  a  yawn. 

"Betty  is  tired,  I  suppose.  Here,  Nan,  roll  up  this 
ribbon,  dearie,  while  I  pick  up  that  mess  of  curl-papers 
and  rose  leaves  from  the  dressing-table.  Hush !  is  that 
Marjorie  calling?"  She  stood  still  and  listened.  "Yes; 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  girls." 

She  moved  swiftly  into  the  dimly-lighted  next  room. 
The  child  sitting  up  in  bed  looked  cross  and  tired. 

"What  is  wrong,  little  one?"  she  asked,  sitting  down 


8 


on  the  bed  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of 
weariness. 

"Everybody  makes  such  a  noise,"  whined  the  child, 
"  and  Ede  came  in  and  pulled  my  hair,  and  I  can't 
sleep." 

"  Lie  down,  darling,  and  I'll  lie  beside  you." 

The  child  snuggled  down  in  her  arms,  put  up  her 
hand  to  stroke  her  face,  and  so  dropped  off  to  slumber. 

In  the  next  room  the  talk  and  laughter  were  unabated. 

"  Eleanor  has  all  the  fun,"  grumbled  Edith,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  reaction.  "  She  goes  off  like  a  princess,  and 
leaves  us  to  clear  up  after  her  as  though  we  were  her  ser- 
vants." She  gave  a  footstool  an  impatient  kick.  "  Leave 
those  things  alone,  Grace.  Betty  will  pick  them  up  in 
the  morning." 

"You  mean  Constance,"  said  Nan,  from  the  lounge. 
"  Constance  won't  go  to  bed  knowing  the  room  is  in  dis- 
order. She  always  says  something  might  happen  in  the 
night,  and  if  strangers  chanced  to  come  in  and  found  a 
frowsy  room  she  would  feel  her  left  ear  burning." 

Grace  moved  slowly  about,  picking  up  the  scattered 
articles.  There  was  a  gentle,  somnolent  ease  in  her 
large  though  girlish  figure,  a  dreamy  thoughtfulness  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Constance  won't  rest,"  put  in  Edith,  conclusively. 
"  She  divides  her  days  into  pigeon-holes,  and  is  busy 
keeping  them  filled.  I  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  were  in  her 
place." 

"What?" 

"  Let  things  run  themselves ;  I've  learned  something 
about  momentum.  But  Constance  thinks  she  has  to 
steer  a  rolling  ball,  and  gets  tired  running  after  it." 


"  Dear  Constance !"  murmured  Nan,  with  a  resentful 
flush  in  her  delicate  cheek. 

"  Poor  Constance !"  sighed  Grace,  gathering  up  a 
handful  of  fallen  rose  leaves  from  the  table.  "  I  wonder 
if  she  feels  as  old  as  a  mother  of  five  girls  does." 

"  Or  a  father,"  supplemented  Edith.  ,  "  It's  a  good 
thing,  girls,  that  Constance  is  a  big  woman ;  otherwise 
she'd  have  been  a  lean,  sour  old  maid  long  ago.  How 
old  is  Constance,  Grace  ?  Thirty  ?" 

"  Why,  no.     She's  only  twenty-six." 

"  Only  five  years  older  than  Eleanor !  You'd  never 
think  Eleanor  was  only  twenty-one  yesterday — the  lucky 
thing !  I  wish  I  were  in  her  place,  and  going  down  to 
see  Geoffrey  to-morrow  about  my  share  of  mamma's 
legacy.  There  goes  the  bell !  Who  can  it  be  at  this 
hour  of  the  night  ?" 

With  abrupt  curiosity  she  tiptoed  into  the  hall,  and, 
catching  sight  of  the  maid  with  a  card  in  her  hand,  she 
followed  her  into  Constance's  room. 

They  both  hurried  over  to  the  bed,  and  looked  down 
for  a  second  at  Constance  asleep,  with  the  sleeping  child 
in  her  arms.  There  was  something  so  peaceful  in  her 
attitude  that  the  maid  drew  back.  But  Edith  had  no 
such  qualms. 

"  Wake  up,  Constance,"  she  whispered,  shaking  her 
ruthlessly.  The  girl  released  her  arms  from  the  child, 
and  sprang  softly  to  her  feet,  awake  on  the  instant. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  hushed  undertone,  mov- 
ing toward  the  door.  "  Something  has  happened  to 
Nan—" 

"  No,  no,"  laughed  Edith  ;  "  it's  only  a  visitor.  Give 
her  the  card,  Betty."  She  peered  over  her  sister's 


10 


shoulder  in  the  dim  light.  "'Hall  Kenyon,'"  she  read, 
slowly.  "  Severn's  friend,  Constance  ;  we  saw  him  this 
afternoon,  you  know.  Hurry  down." 

Constance  swiftly  smoothed  her  hair  and  shook  out 
her  gown.  She  paused  a  moment  to  collect  her  rudely- 
awakened  senses,  and  went  down-stairs. 

The  stranger  stood  with  his  back  turned  toward  the 
door.  It  was  a  broad,  straight,  young  back,  the  brown, 
columnar  neck  supporting  a  powerful,  somewhat  massive, 
head. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  turned  with  a  start.  Her  first  impression  was  of 
a  flash  of  white  teeth  and  the  glow  of  a  dark  young  face 
as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"This  is  an  unpardonably  late  hour,"  he  said,  swiftly; 
"  I  was  unexpectedly  detained.  But  as  I  had  determined 
to  come  to-night,  I  came,  nevertheless.  Scott  said  my 
name  would  not  be  entirely  unfamiliar  to  you."  He 
seated  himself  opposite  to  her,  his  hazel  eyes  resting 
upon  her  with  startling  brilliancy. 

"  His  letters  have  always  been  full  of  your  name,"  she 
replied,  "  and  now  they  quite  overflow  with  your  fame. 
Severn  is  such  an  unselfish  fellow ;  he  always  wishes  the 
world  to  have  a  share  of  his  good-fortune.  I  feel  as 
though  I  had  been  a  sort  of  spiritual  companion  with 
you  on  many  of  your  summer  jaunts  and  yachting  tours. 
Is  Severn  well  ?" 

"  Quite  well,"  he  answered,  an  intense  pleasure  speak- 
ing in  his  voice.  He  had  wished,  at  her  first  words, 
that  the  tender,  peaceful  voice  would  fail  to  pause 
that  he  might  grow  accustomed  to  its  grave  music 
as  to  the  uncommon  personality  of  the  woman  herself. 


11 


She  was  built  in  the  large,  easy  lines  of  the  great  goddess 
— round,  full  bust,  and  curves  of  quiet  strength.  A 
wealth  of  pale,  lustreless,  golden  braids  crowned  her,  the 
matte  complexion  of  her  colorless,  dispassionate  face 
being  in  unusual  combination  with  her  hair.  Her  broad 
gray  eyes  looked  across  at  him  with  the  easy  directness 
of  truth.  In  her  quiet,  experienced  pose,  in  the  repose 
of  her  firm  mouth,  there  was  not  a  suggestion  of  emo- 
tiveness.  And  Kenyon  felt  himself  speaking  less  exu- 
berantly than  was  his  wont. 

"  He  is  quite  well,"  he  repeated.  "  Scott  seems  to 
keep  well  through  sheer  bravado.  He  pays  tribute  to 
no  power  outside  himself,  and  one  can  always  count  upon 
his  bobbing  up  serenely  in  club,  wood,  or  office,  in  spite 
of  the  indisposition  of  weather  or  business.  He  is  a  man 
who  lives  for  the  day,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  smiled  Constance,  "  he  is  a  cheery  pessi- 
mist. Do  you  think  he  has  ever  thought  of  settling 
down  to  a  home  and  fireplace  of  his  own?" 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Kenyon,  with  unexpected  warmth, 
meeting  her  eyes  with  a  flash  of  sudden  insight.  Con- 
stance felt  the  stain  of  color  rising  to  her  temples.  The 
fingers  of  her  white  hand  closed  tightly  over  the  arms  of 
her  chair.  She  had  given  little  heed  to  his  words;  the 
man  himself  disturbed  her  oddly.  His  luminous  hazel 
eyes,  under  straight,  fine  brows,  struck  her  as  discon- 
certingly intuitive  ;  his  nose  was  finely  chiselled ;  his 
mouth,  unshaded  by  a  mustache,  left  an  impression  of 
wilful  sensuousness,  in  striking  contradiction  to  the 
broad,  firm  chin.  The  lack  of  beard  upon  his  face  lent 
to  it  an  air  of  boyishness  which  the  impulsive  color  in 
his  olive  cheek  strongly  augmented.  The  glowing  wine 


12 


of  summer  emanated  from  every  inch  of  his  wholesome 
physique. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  laughed,  throwing  back  his  head  as  a 
child  sometimes  tosses  back  a  refractory  curl  from  his 
forehead,  "ever  since  his  return  from  his  Western  trip 
he  has  seemed  to  simmer." 

"  Simmer  ?"  she  repeated,  questioningly. 

"  Exactly.  As  a  pot,  set  back  after  boiling,  browses 
over  its  recent  exploit.  It  is  a  sort  of  retrospective  calm 
which  bodes — something." 

"  He  was  tired,  I  suppose.  Did  he  describe  all  the 
wonders  of  the  coast  ?" 

"  No ;  he  recommended  me  to  a  guide-book  for 
that.  He  was  not  very  discursive,  except  on  one 
point." 

Constance  regarded  him  expectantly.  She  knew  from 
the  animation  in  his  face  that  the  point  in  question  would 
be  divulged. 

"  The  Herriotts,"  he  answered,  at  once.  "  Fact  is, 
Miss  Herriott,  I  know  you  all  from  A  to  Z,  in  every  mood, 
tense,  number,  and  person." 

"  That  was  not  fair  of  Severn." 

"  It  was  his  unselfish  friendliness  again — the  desire  to 
share,  you  know.  He  had  you  all  labelled,  and  when  he 
called  you  by  name  I  immediately  knew  the  character  of 
whom  he  spoke." 

"  What  were  the  labels  ?     May  you  repeat  them  ?" 

"  Certainly.  They  were  Con  —  Eleanor,  the  beautiful 
witch ;  Grace,  the  dreamer ;  Edith  (pardon  me),  the  lit- 
tle devil ;  Nan,  the  dove  ;  and  Marjorie,  the  lamb.  Have 
I  them  straight?" 


13 


"  Quite  —  according  to  Severn's  cousinly  reckoning. 
Are  you  going  to  make  a  long  stay,  Mr.  Kenyon  ?" 

"  That  depends  on  ray  lawyers  and  inclination.  You 
know  I  came  out  to  settle  up  an  inheritance  of  my  late 
uncle,  Seth  Cope." 

"  I  did  not  know.  Do  you  speak  of  Seth  Cope,  who 
used  to  live  in  that  pretty  cottage  over  at  Sausalito  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  cottage  is  part  of  the  legacy  of  which  I  am 
trying  to  dispose,  meanwhile  growing  attached  to  it  by 
living  over  there  in  its  rose  wilderness.  Do  you  know 
Sausalito,  Miss  Herriott  ?" 

"  From  base  to  summit.  We  lived  over  there  one 
whole  summer  and  autumn.  It  is  just  opposite  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Granniss's  place,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes ;  he  and  his  wife  have  proven  very  companion- 
able and  neighborly.  Do  you  know  them?" 

"  They  were  very  dear  friends  of  my  mother.  I  know 
them  well.  But  I  should  think  you  would  find  the  quiet 
distracting  after  the  friction  of  New  York." 

"  I  should  if  I  were  unoccupied.  But  it  seems  to  have 
tumbled  upon  my  mood  most  opportunely." 

"Does  Pegasus  like  the  herbage?"  she  questioned, 
spontaneously. 

He  was  startled  at  the  divination,  and  flashed  one  of 
his  bright,  restless  looks  over  her  again.  "  He  seems  to 
thrive,"  he  returned,  with  an  almost  shy  flush.  "  I  am 
breaking  him  into  a  new  gait." 

"  I  liked  the  old  one." 

He  made  a  military  salute  with  his  hand,  and  rejoined, 
hurriedly,  "  He  cut  too  many  capers.  Got  tired  of  them. 
I  have  struck  into  a  long  narrow  lane,  and  he  must  walk 
sedately.'' 


14 


"  I  think  that  will  be  impossible,"  she  said,  with  a 
kindly  shake  of  her  head.  "  The  grass  springs  under  his 
feet  too  ardently.  His  movement  must  be  swift  and  to 
the  fray." 

"I  hope  not.  My  ambition  lies  in  another  direction. 
I  am  writing  a  novel." 

"  Are  you  ?     It  will  be  good,  I  am  sure." 

"  You  are  kind  to  be  so  prejudiced.  I  hope  your 
prognostications  will  be  fulfilled.  But  its  success  has 
met  with  an  unexpected  barrier." 

«  How  ?" 

"  In  my  windfall.  The  muse,  you  know,  flies  from 
affluence  as  from  the  pest.  She  is  more  at  home  in  a 
garret  or — " 

"  Or,"  she  supplemented  as  he  paused,  "  in  the  throes 
of  a  great  sorrow  or  struggle.  Then  you  must  become 
unhappy  to  become  happy.  Even  your  heaven  knows 
its  purgatory.  I  advise  you  to  stay  out  of  heaven  in 
consideration  of  your  preface." 

"  No,"  he  said,  a  sudden  stubborn  intolerance  steeling 
mouth  and  eyes,  "  no." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  Ken- 
yon  arose  with  a  start.  "  I  have  stayed  too  late,"  he  said, 
standing  tall  and  powerful  before  her.  "  But  I  wish  to 
come  again — to  see  the  children." 

"  Do,"  she  responded,  rising,  and  putting  her  hand 
into  his.  "  Will  you  come  Friday  night  ?  That  is 
the  night  on  which  they  put  on  all  sorts  of  fresh  res- 
olutions and  good  manners — their  weekly  moral  clean- 
ing." 

"  I  have  heard  of  some  of  your  institutions,"  he  said, 
still  holding  her  hand,  and  letting  his  eyes  travel  over  the 


15 


passionless  peace  of  her  face  and  figure.  "  Also  about 
the  singing." 

"  And  your  violin?"  she  asked,  quickly.  "  Have  you 
brought  that  with  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  know  of  my  violin  ?"  he  demanded, 
with  curious  brusqueness, 

"  Nothing — -as  yet,"  she  faltered,  in  surprise.  "  Ex- 
cept through  Severn," 

"  I'll,  introduce  you  Friday  night,"  he  said,  with  in- 
consistent lightness.  "  Will  the  children  be  up  ?" 

"  You  must  come  to  dine — at  seven.     Can  you  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  can.     Good-night." 

She  lingered  a  moment  in  the  moonlight  after  he  had 
run  down  the  steps,  and  then  returned  aimlessly  to  the 
drawing  -  room.  She  stood  with  her  hand  on  a  table 
without  moving.  Presently  she  raised  her  head  with  a 
long  sigh.  "He  is  a  very  handsome  m  —  boy,"  she 
thought,  strangely.  Then,  as  if  by  analogy,  she  walked 
over  and  looked  into  the  great  mirror.  "•  I  am  old,"  she 
murmured,  gazing  at  herself  drearily  —  "I  am  an  old 
woman."  She  stood  for  a  space,  seeing  only  the  loss, 
none  of  the  wonderful  womanly  charm,  ^  And  yet,"  she 
reflected,  "  he — that  Hall  Kenyon — must  be  years  older 
than  I.  Severn  is  over  thirty  —  they  are  nearly  of  an 
age.  Bah  !  what  a  fool  I  am !  I  suppose  it  is  his 
bright  exuberance  which  makes  me  regret  mine  to- 
night." She  moved  with  an  impatient  gesture,  and 
turned  off  the  light. 

She  mounted  the  steps  slowly,  and  entered  the  large 
room  where  Marjorie  slept.  The  taper  had  burned  out, 
and  the  room  was  steeped  in  moonlight.  She  moved 
noiselessly  over  to  the  bed,  and  looked  down  at  the  sweet, 


16 


flushed  face  of  the  sleeping  child.  Unconsciously  she 
brushed  back  the  clustering  curls  from  the  brow,  and 
drew  the  coverlet  more  closely  abouf,  the  little  figure. 
Then  she  turned  slowly,  and  walked  over  to  the 
window. 

She  sat  down  and  looked  out  at  the  night.  The  moon 
advanced  with  slow,  regal  steps  along  the  path  of  tur- 
quoise, in  all  the  grandeur  of  loneliness.  The  spire  of 
the  church  seemed  to  bar  its  way — a  sentinel  arresting  a 
spirit.  It  appeared  wan  to  Constance,  despite  its  radi- 
ance. The  face  looked  like  a  woman's.  She  had  seen, 
that  afternoon,  a  picture — something  like  it — called  "  Pe- 
nelope," by  Cabanel.  The  woman,  with  great  wan  eyes, 
stands  looking  over  the  water — it  is  significant  that  she 
looks  over  the  water ;  in  that  fact,  thought  Constance, 
Cabanel  painted  Penelope's  hope.  Some  poet  once  said 
that  the  sea-gods  quit  their  sunken  palaces  by  night  and 
seat  themselves  on  promontories  to  gaze  out  over  the 
waves.  Mortals  do  otherwise  ;  night  holds  the  future — 
in  dreams — upon  its  bosom.  Without  a  past,  the  pres- 
ent is  a  child ;  without  a  future,  it  is  an  adult  grown 
blind.  Constance's  present  was  not  a  child  ;  neither  had 
it  grown  quite  blind.  She  often  rose  from  her  depths 
and  looked  beyond ;  but  oftener  her  gaze  was  backward. 
In  retrospect  lay  her  strength. 

Six  years  before  she  had  been  a  gay,  laughing  girl. 
One  day  Robert  Herriott,  as  has  been  said,  in  a  frenzy 
of  despondency,  sent  a  pistol-shot  through  his  brain,  and 
blotted  out  the  brightness  of  those  nearest  him  who  were 
old  enough  to  realize  its  import.  It  subdued  Constance 
as  a  thunder-bolt  hushes  the  moment  which  follows ;  it 
sent  into  life  a  frail  blossom  before  the  world  was  ready 


17 


for  it,  and  snapped  asunder  the  erstwhile  powerful  heart 
which  had  been  mated  to  his. 

•  The  mother's  battle  for  life  was  a  desperate  one,  but 
she  lost.     And,  dying,  she  called  her  daughter  to  her. 

"  Constance,"  she  said,  in  a  weak,  supplicating  voice, 
"  I  must  die,  and  I  cannot." 

The  girl  gazed  at  the  despairing  face  dumbly. 

"  Constance,"  whispered  the  mother,  pleadingly, 
"  there  are  all  those  children." 

"  I  am  here,"  answered  the  girl,  pityingly. 

"  But,  darling,  there  is  Nan — and  the  baby." 

"  Yes,  mother." 

The  woman's  eyes  gazed  at  the  pale-faced  girl  with  a 
wordless  message.  As  long  as  she  lived  Constance  Her- 
riott  could  never  forget  that  look. 

"  I  am  here,  mother,"  she  said  again,  in  hushed  solem- 
nity. Upon  the  face  of  the  dying  mother  there  flashed 
an  eager  light ;  she  was  waiting.  Finally  the  answer 
came : 

"  I  shall  never  leave  them,  mother."  And  over  the 
face  of  the  dying  mother  there  dawned  a  peace  that 
passeth  understanding,  but  which  stretched  from  the 
dead  to  the  living  in  a  tie  everlasting.  And  as  long  as 
she  lived  Constance  Herriott  would  never  forget  that 
look. 

So,  when  the  grave  man  had  asked  her  for  the  gift  of 
her  young  womanhood,  it  had  been  easy  to  answer,  "  I 
have  only  my  friendship  left  to  give  you,  Geoffrey  ;  the 
rest  is  given  to  these  children." 

And  that  was  all.  The  young,  inexperienced  girl 
slowly  developed  into  the  motherly  woman.  The  chil- 
dren turned  to  her  as  the  flowers  to  the  sun,  and  she  was 


18 


always  there  to  supply  the  need.  Her  arras  grew  strong- 
er— they  had  much  to  support ;  her  heart  grew  braver — 
it  had  much  to  contend  with ;  her  brain  grew  manly — it 
had  much  to  adjust ;  heart  and  form  of  woman,  will  and 
execution  of  man — one  of  necessity's  curious  combina- 
tions. Robert  Herriott's  miscalculation  had  unnecessarily 
warped  many  lives.  There  was  enough  left  to  keep  the 
bodies  in  comfort — the  one  saving  clause  in  the  burden 
upon  the  young  shoulders. 

There  had  never  been  a  day  when  the  shoulders  had 
fretted.  But  to-night,  as  she  looked  back  at  the  face  of 
her  vanished  youth,  she  shuddered  violently,  and  laid  her 
head  against  the  cold  window-pane  as  if  for  comfort. 

She  suddenly  noticed  that  it  had  grown  strangely  still 
in  the  street  below.  The  cable  had  ceased  to  whirr.  Her 
hands  were  cold  and  numb.  They  grew  slowly  warm  as 
she  lay  awake  beside  the  sleeping  child. 


CHAPTER  II 

ELEANOR  HERRIOTT  waited  in  a  corner  of  Brunton's 
outer  office  with  a  feeling  of  intolerant  impatience.  The 
quick  passage  of  men  in  and  out  of  the  private  rooms, 
the  apparent  absorption  in  business  which  hurried  them 
to  and  fro,  the  rapid  interchange  of  greeting,  and  careless, 
almost  unnoticed  exits,  all  excited  her  through  their  at- 
mosphere of  serious  purpose.  She  was  too  much  of  a 
coquette  to  be  unmindful  of  the  swift  glances  in  her  di- 
rection, but  too  conservative  a  woman  to  be  entirely 
pleased  to  pay  the  popular  tax  which  beauty  levies  upon 
its  possessors. 

She  was  finally  admitted  into  Brunton's  presence,  and 
entered  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Ah,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  putting  out  a  hand  across  his 
desk  by  way  of  acknowledgment,  but  continuing  to 
write  for  a  few  seconds,  his  fine,  strong  face  bent  closely 
over  tbe  document.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  elegance 
about  Geoffrey  Brunton  which  stood  out  markedly  in  his 
uncompromising  law  -  office.  Eleanor  could  not  decide 
to-day  whether  the  impression  was  supplied  by  the  sweep 
of  his  brown  mustache  or  by  the  bit  of  cape-jasmine  in 
his  button-hole. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  presently,  removing  his  hand 
from  hers,  and  carefully  placing  a  blotter  over  his  work. 
"  We  have  a  little  business  to  settle,  have  we  not  ?"  He 
raised  a  pair  of  penetrating  blue  eyes  with  the  strained 


20 


scrutiny  of  the  near-sighted.  This  same  near-sightedness 
was  a  remarkable  softener  to  an  otherwise  somewhat 
severe  visage. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  said,  musingly,  "  when  did  you 
come  into  your  legal  majority  ?" 

"  The  day  before  yesterday." 

"  Good."  He  leaned  across  to  a  box,  and  extracted  a 
packet  of  papers.  He  quickly  ran  them  over,  and  select- 
ing one,  handed  it  to  her.  While  she  was  putting  up 
her  veil,  in  order  to  read  more  clearly,  he  continued : 

"You  will  understand  the  provisions  from  the  words 
of  the  will,  I  think.  Read  it,  and  let  me  know  whether 
you  get  a  thorough  comprehension  of  its  details." 

After  reading  it  slowly  and  carefully,  she  met  his  eyes 
with  a  slight  flush  of  delight. 

"  I  gather  from  it,"  she  announced  with  precision,  as 
though  curbing  her  tongue,  "  that  as  each  of  my  mother's 
daughters  attains  her  twenty -first  birthday,  she  is  to  have 
the  interest  of  seven  thousand  dollars  paid  to  her  month- 
ly, which  she  can  use  as  she  sees  fit ;  or,  should  she 
marry  before,  or  whenever  she  does  marry,  the  principal 
shall  be  handed  to  her  intact.  Is  that  correct  ?" 

"  Quite.  But  during  these  six  years  of  your  minority 
the  principal  has  accumulated  to  something  like  ten 
thousand.  This  will  give  you  a  tidy  little  income  for 
notions  and  nonsense,  as  the  family  fund  will  continue 
to  provide  for  your  necessities,  as  heretofore.  So  I  sup- 
pose you  will  want  your  pile  of  bank-bills  every  month." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  responded  the  girl,  coloring  deeply. 
She  looked  down  at  her  slender  gloved  hands  for  a  mo- 
ment without  speaking.  Then,  with  a  little  self-conscious 
laugh,  she  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  friend. 


"  Geoffrey,"  she  ventured,  "  could  that  clause  about 
handing  over  the  principal  intact  be  broken?" 

He  suddenly  remembered  an  amusing  incident  con- 
nected with  Eleanor  Herriott's  inherited  deplorable  rash- 
ness. She  was  a  child  at  the  time  of  its  happening, 
walking  down -town  with  her  mother,  whose  well -filled 
purse  she  carried  in  her  little  hand.  As  they  entered  a 
large  dry-goods  establishment  Mrs.  Herriott  asked  the 
child  for  the  purse. 

"T  haven't  it,  mamma,"  she 'declared,  excitedly;  "I 
gave  it  to  a  poor  little  boy  who  had  no  coat  on,  and  only 
rags  for  shoes.  He  looked  so  sick.  I  saw  him  while 
you  were  looking  in  a  show-window.  Wasn't  it  lucky  !" 

Brunton  regarded  her  at  this  moment  with  some  con- 
cern. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked.  "  Come,  we  are  not 
at  home,  and  cannot  chat.  What  extravagance  are  you 
contemplating  ?" 

"  Well,"  she  returned,  tapping  the  floor  nervously  with 
her  foot,  "  the  Vassaults  are  going  to  Europe  next  month, 
and—" 

"  And  you  wish  to  go  with  them  ?" 

"Oh,  Geoffrey,  it  is  such  a  chance !" 

"  But,  my  child,  have  you  the  means  ?" 

"  Can't  it  be  taken — outright — from  my  capital  ?" 

"  It  could — with  the  consent  of  your  guardian.  What 
does  she  say  ?" 

"  I — I  have  not  spoken  of  it  to  Constance." 

"  Then  there  is  no  need  in  discussing  it  with  me. 
Why  don't  you  ask  Constance  ?" 

"  You  know  how  stubborn  she  is.  Let  her  once  take 
a  stand,  and — " 


Her  complaining  voice  died  into  a  wavering,  indistinct 
murmur.  Brunton  was  regarding  her  coolly,  critically, 
with  an  intentness  which  she  comprehended  with  annoy- 
ance. 

"  Well,"  she  insisted,  "  you  must  admit  that  no  amount 
of  reasoning  or  alteration  of  conditions  will  make  Con- 
stance change  front.  A  thing  once  true  and  just  with 
her  is  always  true  and  just.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I." 

His  slightly  sallow  skin  showed  a  trace  of  pallor  at  the 
girl's  insinuating  temerity. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  returned,  coolly  but  carefully,  "  her 
guidance  has  not  led  you  astray  as  yet.  Even  though 
you  are  of  age,  you  will,  I  hope,  trust  to  her  maturer 
judgment  hi  all  serious  undertakings." 

"  Why,  Geoffrey  !" —  she  flashed  a  look  of  anger  tow- 
ard him,  her  voice  vibrating  uncontrollably  as  she  spoke 
— "  you  know  that  Constance  is  our  only  one,  father  as 
well  as  mother.  Have  I  ever  appeared  refractory  ?  Don't 
we  all  depend  upon  her  approval  in  every  action?  Do 
you  think  I  consider  myself  sufficient  just  because  I  have 
acquired  a  nominal  independence  !" 

"  That  sounds  sensible,  Eleanor  !  I  only  hope  you  will 
stick  to  such  colors.  Then  —  about  this  European  plan 
— you  are  ready  to  rely  on  her  decision  ?" 

She  scratched  at  a  spot  of  ink  on  the  desk  without 
looking  up. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice ;  after  a  few 
seconds  she  raised  her  eyes  defiantly — "  and  I  shall.  You 
can  advance  me  the  money,  can't  you  ?" 

"  I  can ;  but  without  Constance's  approval,  I  shall  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Still,  why  argue  about  it?  Since 
you  are  so  anxious  to-  go^  why  should  Constance  object  ?" 


"  Because  she  does  not  like  Mrs.  Vassault." 

"  Ah !" 

She  regarded  him  expectantly,  but  he  vouchsafed  no 
further  remark.  He  arose,  put  the  mother's  will  back 
into  its  compartment,  and  turned  his  tall,  slightly  stooped 
figure  toward  her,  waiting  deferentially  for  her  to  move. 
She  arose  perfunctorily,  her  teeth  set  tightly  together. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  agree  with  Constance,"  she  said. 
"You  generally  do  agree  with  her.  But  the  money  is 
mine  now,  and  I  shall  do  with  it  what  I  wish,  or  some- 
body will  be  sorry  for  interfering." 

Brunton  suddenly  understood  the  meaning  of  the  pur- 
ple shadows  which  so  often  encircled  Constance  Herri- 
ott's  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  your  guardian,"  he  said  sternly — "  only  your 
lawyer,  whom  your  sister  has  honored  by  intrusting  with 
other  friendly  matters.  If  you  will  stop  to  consider  your 
words,  you  will  acknowledge  that  they  sound  not  only 
unlovely  but  childishly  wicked  toward  your  sister,  to 
whom  you  owe  more  than  you  can  ever  appreciate.  Despite 
your  twenty-one  years,  you  are  like  the  child  who  says, 
*  Give  me  what  I  wish  and  I'll  be  good,  but  not  other- 
wise.' You — " 

"  I  am  not  a  child,  and  that  is  where  all  the  miscon- 
ception lies.  Credit  me  with  a  little  judgment  on  my 
own  account.  Constance  is  not  infallible.  Besides,  a 
chance  like  this  does  not  offer  itself  every  day  to  a  girl 
in  my  position,  and  since  I  desire  to  go  so  strongly,  I 
shall  not  allow  a  little  personal  prejudice  on  her  part  to 
deter  me." 

She  moved  across  the  room  toward  the  door,  with  her 
head  held  high  in  defiance.  Brunton,  taking  in  the  grace- 


ful  figure  more  minutely  than  interest  had  hitherto  im- 
pelled him,  recognized  that  it  would  take  even  more 
strenuous  arguments  to  move  her  than  would  be  neces- 
sary with  her  sister.  Constance  Herriott  would  have  to 
be  convinced  through  her  reason,  Eleanor  through  the 
sudden  suasion  of  an  overpowering  moral  impetus.  When 
the  latter  was  in  this  condition  she  was,  figuratively,  deaf 
and  blind  to  any  but  her  own  perturbed  sensations. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Eleanor,"  said  Brunton,  holding  out 
his  hand,  which  she  did  not  notice,  "  I  trust  things  will 
shift  themselves  according  to  your  pleasure." 

"  But  you  will  not  help  me,  I  suppose." 

"  I  shall  talk  the  matter  over  with  Constance  Friday 
night,  when  you  can  come  to  a  better  understanding  of 
the  disposition  of  your  resources.  Don't  fight  with  your 
own  shadow.  Go  home  and  be  good,  and  probably  you 
will  be  happy." 

He  ended  with  a  laugh. 

"And  have  a  dreary,  flat  old  time.  Thanks,  I'm  not 
seeking  such  negative  happiness.  Good-bye." 

His  hand  closed  over  hers  on  the  knob. 

"  Take  care,  Eleanor,"  he  admonished. 

"Others  can  take  care;  I'll  take  something  gayer." 

She  turned  the  knob  sharply,  and  left  him  standing 
looking  after  her  quickly  retreating  figure  with  a  feeling 
of  impotent  anger.  He  was  too  intimately  allied  with 
the  Herriotts  to  be  indifferent  to  such  a  revelation  of 
character.  "Little  termagant!"  he  apostrophized,  the 
vision  of  a  quiet,  womanly  form  rising  beside  its  fever- 
ishness  like  a  piece  of  marble  endurance. 

Eleanor  turned  out  of  the  office  with  a  hot  face  and 
knitted  brows.  Her  pulses  were  hammering  with  wild 


25 


displeasure.  To  be  thwarted  was  a  laceration  at  which, 
in  first  moments,  she  tore  rabidly.  Contentment  or  sub- 
mission were  surgeons  at  whose  methods  she  jeered.  At 
the  risk  of  being  called  unamiable  or  unreasonable,  she 
gave  her  leanings  full  headway.  The  perpetually  amiable 
are  fools,  was  her  defensive  corollary — a  sentiment  born 
more  of  vanity  than  of  philosophy. 

As  she  reached  the  corner  of  the  passageway  before 
emerging  into  the  hall  proper,  she  paused  to  brush  some 
dust  from  the  edge  of  her  gown.  At  the  same  moment 
a  man,  turning  the  L  shortly,  brushed  sharply  against 
her  bent  figure,  almost  knocking  her  down.  Eleanor  stag- 
gered against  the  wall,  and  looked  up  indignantly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaimed  a  full,  contrite  voice, 
as  the  man  stood  bare-headed  before  her.  "  I  trust  I  have 
not  hurt  you." 

Eleanor  looked  up  with  a  feeling  of  bewilderment. 
"  No,"  she  answered,  oddly ;  "  it  is  nothing,  I  believe." 
She  turned  to  go,  but  a  wrench  of  pain  in  her  ankle  de- 
layed her. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,"  he  said,  moving  closer. 
"  Will  you  let  me  assist  you  down  the  stairs  ?  I  am  sure 
you  are  in  pain." 

"  It  will  pass,"  she  returned,  with  a  nod  of  dismissal,  as 
she  moved  on  more  slowly.  "  What  a  face !"  she  thought, 
with  a  swift  revulsion  of  feeling.  "  What  a  surprisingly 
vivid  face !" 

By  the  time  she  reached  the  car  the  pain  in  her  foot 
had  subsided.  On  entering  a  street-car  she  generally  as- 
sumed a  preoccupied  air,  which  her  chance  fellow-pas- 
sengers would  have  described  as  haughty.  It  was  her 
own  way  of  showing  that  exclusiveness  is  not  always  an 


outward  fact ;  that  in  a  crowded  public  conveyance 
Eleanor  Harriott's  spirit  proper  rode  alone  in  its  own 
private  carriage.  Two  Chinamen  entered,  arid  seated 
themselves  with  ease  beside  her ;  Eleanor's  face  gave  no 
evidence  of  her  inward  shudder  of  repugnance.  A  bux- 
om, bejewelled  dame  was  reiterating,  at  full  pitch,  her  in- 
dignation over  her  friend's  having  paid  her  fare.  A  man 
with  a  package  of  sausages  was  seated  opposite  her ; 
Eleanor  hated  the  odor  of  the  very  word  sausage.  Two 
women  were  retailing,  for  the  benefit  of  all  hearers,  sto- 
ries of  their  household  grievances  and  economies ;  a 
school-girl  was  giggling  over  the  unsolicited  information. 
A  man  on  the  back  platform  was  chewing  tobacco.  When 
Eleanor  got  off  at  her  corner  her  nerves  were  in  the  ruf- 
fled state  of  the  fretful  porcupine. 

There  are  days  when,  from  the  hour  of  rising  to  retir- 
ing, every  detail  seems  to  rise  in  malicious  anarchy  to 
desire  and  comfort.  This  was  such  a  day  for  Eleanor. 
When  she  reached  the  house,  she  found  Edith  leaning  on 
the  gate. 

"  Let  me  pass,"  she  commanded,  crossly. 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  advised  Edith,  suavely. 
"  There  is  that  in  the  drawing-room  which  truth  forbids 
me  to  call  charming,  but  which  is  awaiting  you  impa- 
tiently." 

"  Who  is  in  there  2" 

"The  Plague." 

"  Mrs.  Ferris  ?     Is  Gertrude  with  her  ?" 

«  She  is." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  in.  Edith, 
will  you  move  aside  ?  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  tolerate 
your  nonsense." 


"  Your  words  are  unnecessary  evidence,"  admitted  her 
sister,  allowing  her  to  open  the  gate  and  pass  in. 

The  Ferrises  were  just  rising  to  go  as  she  entered,  but 
sank  back  to  chat  a  moment.  Mrs.  Ferris,  an  eagle-nosed, 
ferret-eyed  woman,  with  a  lorgnon  and  an  "  air,"  passed 
inspection  over  the  new-comer's  toilet,  and  allowed  her  to 
move  on  to  her  daughter,  a  sweet-faced  girl,  while  she 
resumed  her  monologue.  To  entertain  Mrs.  Ferris  was 
to  listen. 

"  Yes,  as  I  was  saying  when  Eleanor  entered,  Miss  Her- 
riott,  a  mother  has 'more  duties  than  she  herself  can 
enumerate.  The  secret  of  my  children's  well-being  lies 
in  the  fact  that  I  even  sleep,  as  it  were,  with  rny  hand  on 
them.  Unconsciously  I  direct  their  very  dreams,  and — " 

"  Do  they  ever  have  the  nightmare  ?"  interrupted  Elea- 
nor, softly. 

"  Figuratively  speaking,  never.  I  have  often  thought 
of  you,  Miss  Herriott,  with  your  five  girls,  and  wished  I 
could  be  of  some  real  benefit  to  you.  Now,  for  instance, 
if  you  ever  need  a  chaperon,  say  at  a  dinner,  or  a  tea,  or 
any  of  the  pretty  little  functions  which  you  may  under- 
take for  yourself  or  sisters,  you  can  count  on  me  at  any 
time." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Ferris,  but  I  have  grown  accus- 
tomed to  considering  myself  sedate  enough  to  be  the 
children's  chaperon,  and  they  are  certainly  sufficiently 
numerous  to  be  mine." 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  you  know  what  prodding-forks  and 
microscopes  are  used  on  an  unmarried  woman's  actions. 
Now,  for  example — merely  for  example,  you  know — how 
could  you  explain  your  very  intimate  relations  with  Mr. 
Brunton  to  a  suspicious  stranger  ?" 


28 


"  I  never  vouchsafe  explanations  to  strangers.  To  my 
friends  my  actions  need  no  justification." 

"  Indeed,  that  is  true.  But  Mr.  Brunton,  otherwise 
so  very  hard  to  draw  into  polite  society,  is  contin- 
ually—" 

"  Oh,  mamma !"  murmured  Gertrude  Ferris,  with  a 
shamed  face. 

"  My  dear  Gertrude,  Miss  Herriott  understands  that 
my  intentions  are  purely  motherly." 

"  For  whom  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  innocently.  "  Constance, 
or—" 

"  Really,"  broke  in  Constance,  with  an  uneasy  laugh, 
"  I  have  never  supposed  that  I  was  such  a  cynosure,  so  I 
have  never  posed.  Everybody  knows  that  Mr.  Brunton 
is  our  lawyer  and  a  sort  of  friendly  guardian  of  the 
children,  besides  being  a  family  friend  ever  since  he 
came  to  the  city,  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  He  was  a 
boy  going  to  the  university  when  I  was  a  little  toddler 
of  four  or  five.  His  father  and  mine  had  been  old  col- 
lege-mates." 

"  Indeed  ?  How  very  interesting  !  Those  old  friend- 
ships grow  quite  romantic  sometimes.  It  must  make 
you  feel  as  though  you  had  an  elder  brother." 

Constance  smiled  her  acquiescence. 

"  And  now  we  must  go,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ferris,  bus- 
tling up.  "  Come,  Gertrude.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Miss 
Herriott,  did  I  understand  my  Helen  aright  when  she 
said  that  you  contemplated  giving  Grace  a  graduating 
tea?" 

"  We  spoke  only  of  a  sociable  little  afternoon  for 
some  of  her  intimate  school-mates — something  quite  in- 
formal and  friendly." 


"I  suppose  you  will  have  tete-a-tete  tables  and 
music?" 

"  Oh  no.  We  like  our  own  round-table  for  general 
hilarity  and  fun." 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  Miss  Herriott — not  for  a  moment. 
I  speak  from  experience,  and  know  that,  notwithstanding 
the  size  of  your  room,  there  is  less  trouble  with  small 
tables.  Take  my  advice  " — she  was  on  the  door-step  by 
this  time — "  and  profit  by  my  experience.  I  shall  be  in 
to  assist  you.  Good-bye.  No  thanks  necessary.  I  am 
not  a  woman  who  believes  in  confining  my  whole  inter- 
est to  my  own.  Good-bye." 

Constance  closed  the  door  after  them,  and  returned  to 
the  drawing-room  and  Eleanor  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"Well,"  remarked  Eleanor,  taking  off  her  hat  and 
leaning  back  with  an  air  of  relief,  "  I  should  like  to 
choke  that  woman." 

"  You  came  very  near  being  rude  to  her." 

"  Can't  help  it ;  she  makes  me  savage.  Her  only  virt- 
ue is  that  she  is  the  mother  of  her  daughter,  and  Ger- 
trude's most  deplorable  failing  is  that  she  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  her  mother.  Poor  thing !  if  she  had  been  born 
without  a  mother,  it  would  have  been  better  for  her.  The 
man  who  can  face,  without  flinching,  the  prospect  of  Mrs. 
Ferris  as  a  mother-in-law  is  yet  unborn  ;  a  man  likes  to  be 
his  own  manager.  And  now  she  has  Geoffrey  in  her  eye, 
the  wary  angler !" 

"  You  have  just  come  from  him,  have  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes."     She  sat  filliping  the  rose  in  her  hat. 

"Did  you  read  mother's  will?"  continued  Constance, 
softly,  surprised  at  Eleanor's  sudden  silence. 

«  Yes.* 


30 


"  Of  course  we  always  knew  that  she  had  devised  her 
property  to  us  in  this  way,  but  it  seems  more  real  after 
reading  it." 

She  scanned  her  sister's  face  anxiously,  conscious  that 
some  untoward  event  had  robbed  it  of  its  bright  charrn. 

"  Is  anything  wrong,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  No,  only —  Constance,  you  know  the  Vassaults  are 
going  to  Europe  next  month." 

"  So  you  told  me  last  night." 

"  Well,  they  wish  me  to  go  with  them,  and  I  wish  to 
go,  too.  May  I  ?" 

"  It  is  not  a  trip  down-town,  dear.  It  requires  a  nice 
little  sum  to  get  ready,  go,  stay,  and  return." 

"I  know;  but  I  have  it  now,  and  I  wish  you  would  let 
me  take  some  of  it  for  this.  Oh,  Constance,  I  am  just 
wild  to  go.  I  have  never  been,  and  I  have  longed  for  it 
so  often." 

"  You  know,  Eleanor,"  said  Constance,  gravely,  "that  I 
dearly  wish  you  to  go,  too — but  not  with  Mrs.  Vassault." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  is  too  young — and  careless." 

"  She  is  as  proper  as  you,"  burst  forth  the  girl,  -vio- 
lently. "  She  goes  with  the  best  people,  and  you  have 
often  let  me  go  out  with  her." 

"  But  this  is  quite  a  different  affair.  Certainly,  Mrs. 
Vassault  knows  and  keeps  the  proprieties — she  does  that 
by  instinct ;  but  she  also  does  some  very  foolish  things." 

"  Am  I  not  to  be  trusted  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Try  me.  Constance,  darling,  just  this  first  trial ! 
You  always  want  to  give  us  what  pleasure  you  can.  Say 
yes,  Constance." 


She  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  her  arms  about  her  waist, 
her  lovely  face  raised  pleadingly  to  the  troubled  beauty 
of  her  sister's  eyes. 

"Dear,  honestly,  I  cannot." 

The  girl  made  a  passionate  movement  with  her  hands, 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and  threw  herself  on  the  divan  in  a 
fit  of  sobbing. 

"  It  is  easy  enough  for  you  to  sit  there  and  refuse  me 
so  calmly !"  she  cried.  "  You  have  had  your  pleasure. 
You  were  twice  across  ;  and  because  we  grew  up  after 
the  trouble,  you  think  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  have  to  re- 
nounce everything  out  of  the  ordinary  rut.  A  mother 
would  not  act  so.  A  mother  gives  in  once  in  a  while. 
Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  I  wish  you  were  alive  !" 

Constance  had  witnessed  such  an  outburst  before. 
'Nevertheless,  her  face  showed,  in  its  pallor,  the  heavy 
contraction  of  her  heart  caused  by  the  bitter  words. 

"  Poor  Eleanor  !"  she  said,  rising,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  the  silky  hair ;  "  poor  girl !  I  am  sorry,  too,  that  you 
have  no  mother.  I  am  only  doing  my  best,  sister ;  I  am 
sorry  it  is  so  bad." 

The  girl  sobbed  on,  her  face  smothered  in  the 
cushion. 

"You  never  stop  to  consider  that  we  are  younger  than 
you ;  that  we  have  no  father,  or  brother,  or  relatives  to 
take  us  about,  but  have  to  rely  on  the  kindness  of  friends. 
You  are  unjust  and  hard.  But  I  won't  stand  it !" — she 
arose  suddenly,  and  confronted  her  sister  with  a  distorted 
face — "  I  swear  I  won't !" 

She  had  frightened  Constance  before  into  acquiescence, 
and  now  the  latter  drew  her  hand  over  her  brow  with  a 
weary,  uncertain  gesture. 


"Hush,  Eleanor!"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "Let  me  think 
it  over,  will  you  ?" 

Eleanor  drew  in  her  breath  hard.  Her  strong  young 
arms  went  about  her  sister  and  strained  her  close.  "  I 
am  a  devil,"  she  whispered,  fiercely  ;  "  but  I  can't  help  it. 
And  I  —  I  do  love  you,  Constance."  She  rushed  from 
the  room  in  a  flash. 

Five  minutes  later  a  quiet  little  figure  groped  its  way 
into  the  room. 

"  Are  you  there,  Constance  ?"  asked  the  bird  -  like 
voice. 

"  Yes,  Nan." 

The  child's  figure  grew  strained  and  still.  Then  she 
moved  toward  the  voice.  She  raised  her  hand  and 
stroked  the  loved  cheek. 

"Never  mind,  Constance,"  she  murmured,  "never 
mind." 

It  was  the  childish  comfort  the  little  sensitive-plant 
always  offered. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Harriotts'  drawing-room  was  large  and  pleasant 
to  sit  in.  Continual  usage  had  deprived  it  of  many 
of  the  semblances  of  dignity  which,  in  some  degree,  the 
room  of  state  usually  possesses.  The  soft  carpet  on  the 
floor  was  beginning  to  lose  its  delicate  shading;  the 
piano,  more  often  open  than  shut,  was  generally  strewn 
with  loose  sheets  of  music ;  the  heavy,  rich  furniture, 
into  which  a  far-sighted  economy  of  long  ago  had 
woven  a  saving  fibre,  but  which  now  savored  of  the  past 
like  a  magnificent,  well  -  seasoned  coat,  had  a  faculty 
of  arranging  itself  in  odd  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  as 
if  possessed  of  a  fundamental  taste  for  cliques.  The 
beautiful  lace-curtains  were  often  ruthlessly  thrust  behind 
a  chair,  to  admit  a  full  flood  of  sunlight ;  at  times,  has- 
tily thrown  -  down  books  complacently  disported  them- 
selves on  chairs;  now  and  then  a  newspaper  sprawled 
over  a  divan ;  and  visitors,  entering,  found  themselves 
laying  aside  all  formality,  as  a  foreign  wrap  altogether 
out  of  season. 

There  was  generally  a  breath  of  flowers  in  the  air,  as 
herald  to  the  exquisitely  arranged  blossoms  in  pretty 
bowl  or  dainty  vase.  There  were  several  fine  engravings 
and  two  or  three  etchings  on  the  deep,  creamy  walls, 
from  among  which  peeped  one  perfect  bit  of  French 
water-color,  like  a  touch  of  worldliness  in  a  sunny  country 
field.  A  slender  rosewood  cabinet  containing  a  few 


valuable  pieces  of  porcelain  and  ivory,  and  many  oddities 
and  incongruities  to  which  Grace's  botanic  -  geological 
turn  was  always  adding,  smiled  in  neighborly  congenial- 
ity upon  the  pretty  tea-table.  As  social  judgment  is  al- 
ways passed  on  circumstantial  evidence,  the  Herriotts 
were  dubbed,  from  the  appearance  of  their  drawing- 
room,  careless  as  Bohemians.  But  Bohemianism  holding 
in  its  appellation  a  covert  suggestion  of  happiness,  the 
stricture  carried  a  spice  of  pensive  jealousy  interlarded 
with  its  stately  disapproval. 

The  children  were  all  there.  Marjorie,  whose  little 
nose  was  pressed  against  the  window-pane,  and  Grace 
beside  her,  were  watching  the  sun  setting  in  a  flood  of 
flame.  It  bathed  the  spire  of  the  church  in  a  stream  of 
blood,  painted  the  windows  of  the  city  in  tattered 
splashes  of  crimson,  and  fell  upon  the  little  one's  golden 
curls  like  a  band  of  rubies.  Nan,  nestling  among  the 
cushions  of  the  divan,  listened  to  Edith's  animated  ac- 
count of  a  tilt  she  had  had  at  school.  They  were  enjoy- 
ing a  lazy  happiness  when  Eleanor's  entrance  scattered 
the  brooding  peace  of  the  room. 

"  Play  something,  Grace,"  she  called.  "  You  are  for- 
ever mooning  out  of  windows,  as  if  your  home  interior 
were  of  no  account.  Play  a  waltz,  and  we'll  have  a 
dance.  Eh,  Nansie  ?" 

Grace  seated  herself  compliantly  at  the  piano.  She 
struck  into  a  low  dream  waltz.  Nan,  who  loved  the 
poetry  of  motion,  was  presently  gliding  about  with  El- 
eanor. When  the  music  changed  into  a  stirring  galop 
Eleanor  stopped,  after  a  pace,  and  seated  Nan,  quite 
breathless,  in  a  chair.  Edith,  in  a  fervor  of  animal  spir- 
its, sent  the  chairs  spinning  as  she  flew  through  the 


35 


room,  regardless  of  Marjorie's  plaintive  appeal  to  stop, 
as  the  child  was  whirled  about  in  the  girl's  tenacious 
hold.  It  was  only  when  Edith  noticed  that  Grace's 
music  had  again  changed  that  she  paused  to  take  breath. 

She  was  playing  a  minuet.  At  the  sound  of  the  quaint, 
stately  measure,  Eleanor  stepped  from  the  shadowy  cor- 
ner, her  lithe  figure  in  pale,  vapory  gray,  slowly  advan- 
cing to  the  rhythm  of  the  music ;  advanced  and  re- 
treated, swayed,  and  was  gone  ;  courtesied  deep  and 
stepped  a  measure,  met  her  imaginary  courtier,  and 
parted  again,  in  the  mimic  pace  of  life — the  joy  of  com- 
ing, the  grief  of  going,  the  music  fainting  and  flowing, 
staccato  and  sustenato,  in  the  stateliness  of  grave  prose, 
the  grace  of  sensuous  poetry. 

The  others  watched  with  lazy  pleasure  —  they  were 
used  to  Eleanor's  graceful  vagaries. 

It  was  Grace  who  first  saw  the  tall  dark  figure  on  the 
threshold,  and  her  playing  stopped  with  a  crash  as  she 
sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mr.  Kenyon  ?"  she  asked,  coming  forward 
uncertainly. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  taking  her  hand.  "  I  begged 
the  maid  not  to  disturb  you  while  I  stood  there  with  the 
impertinence  of  a  snap  camera.  You  are  Miss  Grace,  I 
remember,  and  you  are  Miss  Edith."  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  tall  school-girl,  who  put  hers  in  his  with  the 
straightforward  movement  of  a  boy. 

"Just  Edith,"  she  acquiesced,  with  a  friendly  nod 
which  brought  an  involuntary  smile  to  Kenyon's  eyes. 
11  There  is  Nan." 

"  I  know  little  Nan,"  he  responded,  patting  the  child's 
hand  softly.  "  And  this  is  Marjorie.  You  see,"  he  ex- 


36 


plained,  as  he  picked  up  the  little  one,  putting  the 
young  girls  at  their  ease  with  his  frank  ingenuousness, 
"  that  cousin  of  yours  has  made  introductions  quite  un- 
necessary. I  knew  you  all  long  ago." 

"  Do  you  know  me,  too  ?"  asked  the  other  girl,  mov- 
ing from  her  shadowy  retreat.  She  had  been  startled  at 
sight  of  his  face — beautiful,  yet  clear-cut  as  a  piece  of 
chiselling  in  the  dimming  light.  He  took  a  quick  step 
toward  her. 

"  You  are — ah,  we  have  met  before  !"  He  held  out 
his  hand.  "  *  Had  we  never  met  so  blindly ' — "  he  began, 
but  stopped  abruptly.  "  I  fear  I  hurt  you  that  first 
time.  Do  you  cherish  animosity  ?" 

"  No ;  I  shall  forgive  you,  if  you  promise  never  to  do 
so  again." 

"  I  never  hurt  voluntarily ;  things  will  move  round, 
you  know,  willy-nilly.  All  we  can  do  is  to  relieve  our- 
selves in  a  grumble,  and — let  things  pass." 

"  Molt,  as  it  were,"  she  observed,  as  their  glance  fell 
upon  Constance  standing  in  the  curtained  doorway. 

Eleanor,  watching  him  narrowly,  saw  the  easy  self- 
possession  of  his  aspect  change  curiously.  The  warm 
blood  surged  to  his  temples  as  he  moved  to  greet  his 
hostess.  The  filmy  black  gown,  which  she  wore  with- 
out ornament  of  any  description,  suited  her  peculiarly. 
While  dressing  she  had  had  a  vague,,unaccountable  de- 
sire to  add  a  ribbon  or  a  rose,  something  light  and  fem- 
inine, but  Eleanor's  words  had  routed  the  unspoken 
thought. 

"  What  a  difference  there  is  between  us  !"  she  had  ex- 
claimed, almost  petulantly.  "  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
put  on  your  gown  and  you  are  entirely  dressed.  Your 


37 


complexion  and  hair  are  always  to  be  relied  on  —  they 
are  as  unchangeably  perfect  as  those  of  a  transfigura^ 
tion ;  a  rose  in  your  hair  would  be  as  much  out  of  place 
as  upon  your  magnificent  Venus,  who  is  perpetually 
clothed  in  her  own  marble  chastity.  I  don't  know  what 
I  lack,  but  I  always  have  to  add  stucco-work  to  my  es- 
sentials to  give  the  effect  its  proper  character — just  as 
bits  of  paint  on  the  cheek  designate  a  certain  class  of 
women." 

"  What  a  comparison  !"  Constance  had  laughed.  "  You 
do  not  need  your  roses — they  are  only  lines  of  emphasis 
to  the  fact  that  you  and  they  are  akin." 

Kenyon  might  have  echoed  Eleanor's  words,  without 
the  petulance,  as  he  approached  her. 

"  Good-evening,"  he  said,  as  their  hands  met. 

"  Good-evening,"  she  made  answer,  as  their  hands  fell 
apart.  Such  was  his  advent  into  the  Herriott  family. 

There  were  certain  things  about  the  dinner  and  even- 
ing which,  being  individual,  Kenyon  never  utterly  for- 
got. The  bright  girl-faces  gathered  about  the  circular 
table  held  an  element  of  home-light  which  was  new  and 
charming  to  him. 

"  I  am  one  of  those  vagabonds,"  he  commented,  with 
friendly  confidence,  "  whose  name  has  never  belonged  to 
a  home-list.  I  was  thrust  into  the  world  with  but  one 
tie,  and  that  was  broken  as  soon  as  she  saw  me  comfort- 
ably started — that  is,  as  soon  as  my  systole  and  diastole 
apparatus  were  in  conventional  running  order.  I  grew  up 
among  strangers,  and  in  my  club-quarters  have  retained 
mostly  masculine  associates.  Actually,  I  could  count 
upon  my  fingers  the  number  of  times  I  have  dined,  as 
to-night,  exclusively  en  famille.  '  When  asked  to  dine  it 


38 


has  generally  proven  that  I  was  one  of  a  batch  of  other 
guests.  At  such  times,  dining  is  assisting  at  an  enter- 
tainment. It  takes  the  presence  of  a  child,  I  see,  to  rob 
the  pleasure  of  all  formality."  Marjorie  had  refused, 
with  a  species  of  childish  infatuation,  to  be  separated 
from  him,  and  was  seated  beside  him  monopolizing  him 
with  her  favors. 

"  Marjorie  has  adopted  you,"  observed  Constance, 
with  a  smile.  "But  should  we  pity  you?  You  seem 
to  have  flourished  under  the  privation." 

"Weeds  also  grow  strong  and  lusty  without  care." 
He  noticed  how,  almost  unobserved,  she  had  placed  the 
fork  in  Nan's  hand,  and  arranged  everything  for  her 
within  comfortable  reach. 

Later  he  could  not  restrain  his  look  of  absorbed  in- 
terest when  Constance  carved.  She  noticed  it. 

"You  do  not  regard  this  as  a  woman's  right,"  she 
said,  glancing  up  for  a  second,  and  then  looking  down  as 
the  sharp  steel  slid  through  the  brown  meat. 

"  You  are  an  artist,"  he  said,  with  simple  force. 

"It  is  the  art  of  necessity,"  she  replied.  It  was  not 
the  dexterous  use  of  the  knife  which  arrested  his  ad- 
miration ;  his  eye  was  held  by  the  manner  in  which  she 
poised  the  fork  in  the  bird's  breast.  The  firm,  white 
hand,  the  rounded,  satiny  wrist,  with  the  nicks  in  the 
corners,  did  not  stir,  the  supple  finger  resting  on  the 
guard  looked  strong  and  nerveless  as  the  steel.  It  would 
be  a  steady  finger  on  a  trigger,  he  thought,  by  an  in- 
explicable analogy. 

"  Constance  has  served  her  apprenticeship,"  laughed 
Eleanor.  "  The  first  time  she  had  fowl  to  carve  she  was 
confronted  as  by  a  blind  alley — there  seemed  no  way 


39 


through.  Unfortunately,  our  cook,  a  new  one  that  day, 
was  as  conversant  with  the  biped's  ligaments  as  we.  We 
contemplated  it  for  a  while  in  irritable  imbecility  until 
Constance  was  inspired.  '  Run  for  Geoffrey,  Grace,' 
she  said.  'Tell  him  we  must  see  him  on  the  instant. 
Tell  him  it  is  a  matter  which  menaces  life  and  limb.' 
That  was  six  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Brunton  was  keeping 
bachelor's  hall  two  blocks  from  here.  Grace  and  he 
were  back  in  ten  minutes,  and  that  day  Constance  took 
her  first  lesson  in  carving." 

"  You  were  fortunate  in  having  such  a  convenient 
ally." 

"Oh,  Geoffrey  is  a  sort  of  alarm  patrol  for  us,"  put  in 
Edith.  "  Constance  has  only  to  touch  the  button  and  he 
is  here." 

"  Mr.  Brunton  calls  us  his  conscience,"  explained  Con- 
stance quietly,  her  still  gray  eyes  meeting  his.  "We 
are  quite  as  troublesome — calling  him  up  sharply  at  the 
most  unexpected  moments.  He  comes  now  without 
demur,  and  generally  at  his  leisure  ;  we  never  expose  him 
to  any  danger." 

"  Danger  is  inviting,"  observed  Eleanor,  in  a  low  tone 
of  challenge. 

"  That  depends  on  circumstances,"  answered  Kenyon, 
turning  quickly  toward  her. 

"  Of  time  and  place  ?" 

"  No  ;  on  the  degree  of  vanity." 

"  Of  personality,  you  should  say,  and  be  more  exact." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  said  and  meant  of  vanity." 

"Your  judgment  is  pessimistic,  and,  therefore,  only 
half  true.  Everybody  is  not  brave  through  vanity." 

"  /  believe  the  contrary." 


40 


"  Indeed !  You  are  perhaps  only  following  a  divine 
precept — conceiving  man  in  your  own  image." 

The  quick  interchange  of  comment,  the  two  bright 
faces,  were  dangerously  alike.  Both  their  pulses  beat 
warmly  as  their  eyes  held  each  other.  Presently  he 
laughed,  boyishly  throwing  back  his  head. 

"  Miss  Eleanor,"  he  said,  "  if  there  were  not  a  child 
between  us  I  am  afraid  we  might  come  to  blows.  It  is 
always  good  for  me  to  have  an  olive-branch  between  my 
opponent  and  myself.  I  am  rabid  when  struck." 

"  And  I,"  retorted  Eleanor. 

Afterwards  he  heard  them  sing  Abt's  "Evening." 
Scott  had  often  expatiated  on  the  harmony  of  their 
voices.  Constance  played  and  took  the  alto,  Grace  con- 
tralto, Edith  and  Nan  soprano,  and  Eleanor  mezzo-sopra- 
no. Kenyon,  sitting  a  little  removed,  with  Marjorie  on 
his  knee,  half  closed  his  eyes.  He  heard  almost  uncon- 
sciously. He  was  wholly  possessed  by  the  form  and  face 
of  Constance  Herriott  rising  in  the  midst  of  her  younger 
sisters  like  a  queenly  water-lily  among  its  neighboring 
buds.  The  moment  was  peaceful  and  beautiful. 

Then  he  asked  Eleanor  to  sing.  Scott,  he  said,  had 
told  him  she  was  quite  the  prima  donna.  She  hesitated 
capriciously.  Her  face  was  deeply  flushed,  the  red  rose 
in  her  glinting  hair  drooped  in  heavy  languor  toward 
her  tiny  ear.  Presently  she  placed  a  sheet  of  music  before 
Constance  and  began  to  sing.  It  was  a  dramatic  ballad  ; 
the  words,  somewhat  intense,  depicted  the  sensations  of 
Sheba  at  the  sight  of  Solomon,  and  began  with,  "  He 
stood  a  king."  Her  voice  was  full  and  rich ;  but  it  was 
the  power  of  passion  which  colored  it  that  astounded 
Kenyon. 


41 


"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  as  she  finished  and  Constance 
arose.  "You  have  a  beautiful  power  in  your  throat." 
She  smiled.  She  was  slightly  pale,  as  if  exhausted. 

"Now,"  said  Constance,  coming  toward  him,  "you 
must  excuse  me  one  minute  while  I  put  this  little  lady 
to  bed.  Kiss  all  around,  Marjorie." 

His  gaze  followed  her  curiously  as  she  left  the  room 
holding  the  child's  hand.  Were  such  attentions  neces- 
sary ? 

"Geoffrey  will  be  here  soon,"  observed  Nan,  in  a  pleas- 
antly anticipating  tone  ;  "  won't  he,  Grace  ?" 

"Yes;  Geoffrey  always  comes  Friday  night,"  she  ex- 
plained. Even  as  she  spoke  he  came  in.  Kenyon  was 
conscious  of  a  twinge  of  jealousy  as  he  noted  the  quiet 
pleasure  with  which  he  was  greeted. 

"  Ah,  Kenyon,"  said  Brunton,  holding  out  a  hand  to 
his  client,  and  shaking  it  as  if  the  personality  of  its  own- 
er were  somewhat  vague.  Then  he  strolled  over  and  sat 
down  by  Nan,  taking  her  hand  in  his.  The  child's  face 
flushed  with  delight  —  the  sense  of  contact  is  very  com- 
forting to  the  blind. 

When  Constance  came  in  again  she  carried  a  violin  in 
its  case. 

"  I  found  this  in  the  hall,"  she  announced.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  had  forgotten  it.  Will  you  play  —  anything 
— for  us  ?  Oh,  Geoffrey." 

"  As  usual,"  he  answered,  shaking  hands  and  seating 
himself  again,  "  Kenyon,  Nan  is  quivering  with  impa- 
tience ;  I,  with  doubt.  Do  you  know  what  you  are  evok- 
ing, Constance  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  May  I  accompany  you,  Mr.  Kenyon  ?  I 
see  you  have  brought  your  music." 


It  was  a  dance  of  Dvorak,  quaint,  wild,  fantastic.  It 
held  them  charmed.  The  violinist  himself  seemed  pos- 
sessed with  a  half -barbaric  spirit  as  his  bow  cut  and 
flashed  and  danced  upon  the  strings  in  the  flow  of  singu- 
lar melody. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  before  they  could  speak,  "  I  must 
go,"  and  he  moved  toward  the  door.  They  looked  up 
at  him  in  startled  wonder. 

"You  don't  know  the  value  of  a  pause,"  remarked 
Brunton. 

"  It  is  my  way,"  laughed  Kenyon.  "  To  pause  with 
me  means  to  become  stationary.  I  must  go  at  the  first 
inspiration  or  not  at  all."  He  shook  hands  with  them 
all.  Constance  accompanied  him  into  the  hall. 

"  I  have  not  had  time  to  speak  with  you.  You  are  off 
like  an  arrow." 

"  I  shall  come  again,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  I — I  prom- 
ised Scott  I  would  read  the  first  chapters  of  my  book  to 
you.  He  values  your  literary  opinion  highly.  May  I  ?" 
He  looked  diffident  as  a  big  handsome  boy,  standing  be- 
fore her  and  glancing  down  at  her. 

"Ah,"  she  smiled,  her  heart  giving  a  painful  leap,  "  you 
touch  my  vanity.  I  am  going  to  take  the  undeserved 
honor — like  a  sneak." 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  his  brows  contracting. 

"  Well,  come  some  night  next  week,"  she  answered, 
lightly,  and  he  was  gone. 

When  the  younger  girls  had  retired,  Brunton  broached 
the  question  of  Eleanor's  departure. 

"  Have  you  come  to  any  conclusion,  Constance  ?"  he 
asked,  glancing  over  toward  Eleanor,  who  appeared 
otherwise  absorbed. 


43 


"  Yes,"  replied  Constance,  clearly.  "  When  the  Vas- 
saults  go,  Grace  will  have  graduated.  I  think  it  will  be 
a  good  opportunity  for  her  to  go,  and  I  shall  like  to  know 
that  Eleanor  has  her  with  her.  Mr.  Vassault  is  very 
fond  of  Grace,  and  will  not  object,  I  am  sure." 

"  But,"  interposed  Brunton,  with  raised  eyebrows, 
"  have  you  considered  the  cost  of  Grace's  tour  ?  It  will 
require  a  good  sum,  you  know." 

"  I  have  it.  I  have  never  used  any  of  my  own  capital. 
How  does  that  plan  strike  you,  Eleanor  ?" 

"What?  That?"  drawled  the  girl,  with  a  yawn. 
"  Don't  trouble  yourselves.  I  am  not  going." 

Constance  looked  at  her  in  mute  inquiry.  To  Brun- 
ton the  inexplicable  words  were  like  a  cold  douche  after 
a  steam-bath.  His  eyes,  wandering  aimlessly  from  Elea- 
nor, fell  upon  Kenyon's  violin.  He  had  forgotten  to 
take  it  with  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

C CLUB, 

NEW  YORK,  April  21,  18— . 

MY  DEAR  CONSTANCE, — No  doubt  Kenyon  has  pre- 
sented himself  long  ago  with  a  verbal  recommendation 
from  me  which  was  valueless,  he  being  one  of  those  for- 
tunate sails  who  carry  their  own  breeze  with  them.  What 
do  you  think  of  him  ?  Like  him,  eh?  Women  have  such 
a  marvellous  faculty  of  arriving  at  correct  conclusions 
without  a  trace  of  reasoning.  However,  it  is  preposter- 
ous to  imagine  your  caring  for  his  forebears,  an  artist's 
pedigree  being  overshadowed  by  his  work.  As  to  his 
own  credentials,  a  writer  paints  two  men  in  his  hero — his 
model,  imaginary  or  taken  from  life,  and  himself.  But 
genius,  you  know,  is  democratic ;  one  never  knows  what 
may  be  picked  up  with  it.  Kenyon,  however,  is  of  excel- 
lent stock  and  breeding,  if  you  wish  testimony  as  to  the 
animal.  His  father  was  one  Gilbert  Kenyon,  an  archi- 
tect, almost  an  artist,  of  distinguished  repute,  whose 
family  dates  back  to  Adam,  than  whom  none  prior  sat. 
His  mother  was  a  Carter,  one  of  the  loveliest  of  women, 
who  gave  to  her  son  all  her  Southern  fire  and  charm,  and, 
having  none  left  for  herself,  departed  a  month  after  her 
husband.  The  record  has  its  parallel,  we  know.  Ken- 
yon is  thus  free  of  all  family  entanglements.  He  shines 
by  his  own  light,  without  even  the  advantage  of  an  an- 
cestral background — a  sort  of  detached  central  figure 


45 


which  arrests  attention  wherever  it  moves.  The  world  is 
pleased  to  call  his  curious  faults  eccentricities.  A  great 
deal  of  his  success  would  be  accounted  the  result  of  his 
unusual  physical  attractions,  if  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  the  puppet  of  the  many  social  queens  who  have  sought 
to  inveigle  him  to  their  salons  as  an  additional  superb 
ornament.  But  he  is  to  be  measured  by  a  different 
measurement.  He  is  singularly  indifferent  to  adulation 
of  that  kind.  He  burns  feverishly  with  strong  literary 
ambitions.  He  has  made  some  bright  showing,  but  has 
not  yet  attained  apogee.  His  powers  are  all  in  their 
incipiency.  My  conviction  is  that  he  requires  to  go 
through  the  mill,  especially  the  "  dem'd  grind  "  of  another 
sort  of  misery  than  that  of  the  body,  before  he  will  stand. 
Meanwhile  he  has  been  put  in  the  way  of  new  material. 
Give  him  a  little  wholesome,  unspiced  home-diet  to  act 
as  bromide  to  his  ardor.  My  love  and  a  kiss  to  the 
chickens  and  their  ultra-devoted  mother-hen. 

SEVERN  SCOTT. 

The  foregoing  letter  came  one  morning  when  Con- 
stance and  Eleanor  sat  together,  rocking  and  sewing. 
Constance  had  smiled  over  its  contents,  and  Eleanor, 
reading  over  her  shoulder,  remarked  that  Severn's  punc- 
tilious solicitude  was  not  to  be  disdained. 

"  Does  he  think  us  disposed  to  accept  a  man  merely  on 
the prima  facie  of  his  good  looks?"  she  asked,  mockingly. 
".  Does  he  account  us  such  barbarians  of  the  West  as  to 
suppose  we  would  take  into  the  bosom  of  our  family  a 
man  without  prenatal  advantages  and  authorized  ar- 
chives that  he  owns  a  dust-heap  somewhere  worthy  of 
distinction  from  the  common  dirt  of  a  Potter's  Field? 


46 


Dear  Severn,  we  are  not  utterly  lost  to  the  survival  of 
the  fittest !  We  are  diffident  about  honoring  the  most 
artistic  signature  without  the  identification  of  Eastern 
approval.  Bosh !" 

"  Not  altogether  '  bosh,' "  Constance  decided,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Blood  will  talk  sooner  or  later,  and  very  often 
it  is  later  than  comfort  would  direct.  These  records  of 
the  past  serve  us  socially  as  a  sort  of  reference  agency. 
Half  the  time  we  trust  to  our  impulses,  which  are  about 
as  reliable  as  weathercocks." 

"  That  royal  '  we '  is  generous.  You  know  quite  well 
that  all  your  emotions  are  tied  up  with  endless,  tire- 
some red-tape.  You  impulsive !  Then  I  am  irrespon- 
sible." 

They  were  all  in  the  library  in  the  evening,  when  the 
maid  brought  Kenyon's  card  to  Constance. 

"  He  asked  for  Miss  Herriott,"  she  explained. 

"  Yes  ?  Very  well,  Betty.  Mr.  Kenyon  has  called," 
she  added,  turning  to  Eleanor.  "  He  promised  to  come 
with  his  book,  and  read  parts  of  it  to  me.  I — I  wish  you 
would  come  in,  too,  Eleanor." 

«  1 3>»  The  rising  intonation,  with  its  undertone  of 
surprise  and  disappointment,  was  of  exaggerated  dura- 
tion. "  Thanks  ;  it  was  never  my  ambition  to  enact  the 
role  of  fifth  wheel." 

Constance  moved  from  the  room  in  silent  dignity,  but 
with  her  brows  deeply  contracted.  Eleanor  suddenly  be- 
came absorbingly  interested  in  her  book.  During  the 
whole  evening  she  did  not  glance  up  once — not  even 
when  the  children  said  "  Good-night."  Had  Grace  been 
a  tease,  she  might  have  remarked  that  the  page  was 
never  turned ;  had  she  been  a  physiognomist,  she  would 


47 


have  observed  that  the  set  jaw  of  her  silent  sister  indi- 
cated clinched  teeth. 

"  Did  I  intrude  ?"  asked  Kenyon,  after  they  had  ex- 
changed greetings,  and  he  had  seated  himself  at  some  lit- 
tle distance  from  her. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  was  particularly  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  do  with  myself  this  evening.  I  was  indulging 
in  a  bit  of  dreaming." 

"  If  it  was  a  good  dream,  I  am  sorry  I  broke  it ;  if 
otherwise,  I  am  glad." 

"Good  or  bad,  they  are  worthless  things — dreams," 
she  assured  him,  lightly.  "  They  serve  for  the  moment, 
and  then,  thin  as  air,  pass  on.  It  is  better  to  live  in  ac- 
tive, substantial  materialism." 

"  That  passes,  too,  happily  for  the  luckless  dog  who 
finds  no  meat  on  his  bone.  I  knew  a  fellow  once  who 
rowed  through  life  easily  with  this  oar :  *  Tout  lasse,  tout 
passe,  tout  casseS  But,  unfortunately  for  most  of  us,  we 
have  not  attained  the  contentment  of  seals.  To  lie  in  the 
sun  and  bask  is  not  the  common  ambition.  I  have  de- 
sires which  prick  me  out  of  all  ease."  He  touched  with 
his  hand  an  oblong  package  which  lay  on  his  knee.  It 
was  a  nervous  gesture.  His  face,  too,  showed  in  its  slight 
pallor  his  inward  perturbation.  He  looked  across  at  her 
with  shy  eagerness  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
listened  with  gentle  interest. 

"  Of  course,"  he  laughed,  "  this  is  the  most  trouble- 
some. I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  story  if  you  feel  in  a 
listening  mood  to-night.  Do  you  ?" 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  it.  But  why  not  read  in- 
stead of  telling  it  2" 

"  Because  its  claims  for  excellence,  if  it  have  any,  lie 


48 


more  in  the  matter  than  manner.  I  shall  read  you  a  page 
here  and  there  to  show  you  the  style  of  the  animal ;  you 
may  find  it  either  too  dull  or  fantastic  for  the  characters. 
I  do  not  think  I  should  put  a  black  gown  on  a  negress, 
but  I  might  put  diamonds  in  her  ears,  and  make  her  as 
much  out  of  drawing.  Look  out  for  the  weaknesses,  but 
don't  be  finical,  please." 

"  It  is  bad  policy  to  begin  with  a  plea  for  clemency," 
she  smiled.  "  I  assure  you  I  am  singularly  open  to  the 
conviction  of  its  charms." 

"  Entirely  unprejudiced  ?" 

"  Quite,"  she  returned,  with  guilty  promptitude. 

"  Well,  I  won't  bore  you,"  he  said,  untying  the  cord. 
"  I  shall  make  it  as  short  as  possible." 

"  Don't,"  she  protested. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  insisted,  fingering  the  manuscript  nerv- 
ously. "  You  will  notice  that  I  am  experiencing  a  spe- 
cies of  stage-fright  just  at  this  moment.  I  am  new  to 
this  sort  of  thing." 

"  So  am  I.     I  appreciate  the  honor." 

"  Honors  are  easy  in  this  instance.     Well,  here  goes." 

Straightway  he  began  to  read,  his  voice  somewhat  un- 
steady, the  flickering  color  gradually  mounting  to  his 
temples.  For  several  minutes  she  did  not  hear  a  word 
he  read.  All  her  being  hung  upon  his  presence  :  his  per- 
fect head  and  countenance  ;  his  easy  figure,  graceful  and 
manly  in  the  becoming  evening  -  dress ;  his  long,  supple 
brown  hands,  with  the  well-formed,  finely-kept  nails.  She 
recalled  her  attention  with  an  effort,  and  presently  his 
deep  voice  reached  her  with  meaning. 

The  style  was  straightforward  and  with  little  embel- 
lishment. He  grouped  his  characters  clearly ;  then  drew 


49 


them  out,  and  let  them  speak  for  themselves  more  in 
action  than  conversation.  After  reading  enough  to  in- 
troduce the  plot,  he  commenced  to  tell  the  story,  refer- 
ring now  and  then  to  the  MS.,  so  as  not  to  lose  the 
finer  points.  She  grew  interested.  It  was  exciting,  al- 
most tragic ;  but  whenever  he  neared  the  verge  of  a  ca- 
tastrophe, something  intervened  to  outwit  misery.  It 
was  exhilarating  as  a  race,  the  favorite  always  winning 
the  heat.  Presently  he  again  took  up  the  book,  and  read 
the  last  two  chapters  which  he  had  written.  Then  he 
looked  up  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  It  is  splendid  !"  she  exclaimed,  wishing  to  bring 
back  the  happy  glow  to  his  face  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  Honestly  ?"  he  cried.  He  put  his  hand  across  his 
eyes  and  was  silent.  When  he  looked  up  he  wore  a 
questioning  smile. 

"  Where  is  the  dissenting  <  but '  ?" 

"  The  beginning  is  all  wrong." 

«  Why  ?" 

"  That  girl  would  never  have  loved  at  first  sight." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  She  was  too  old.  Make  her  younger  —  make  her 
twenty." 

"  No  ;  she  would  lose  all  interest  for  me  at  that  callow 
age." 

"  Then  make  her  love  more  slowly." 

"  That  would  not  be  love,  that  would  be  affection — a 
dull,  insensate  feeling,  comfortable,  perhaps,  but  one  such 
as  animals  feel  for  their  furs.  They  grow  used  to  them, 
and  cannot  do  without  them." 

"  It  is  a  good  feeling." 

"  You  say  that  as  I  have  beard  some  women  draw  at- 

4 


50 


tention  to  the  lack  of  beauty  in  another  by  saying,  *  She 
is  so  good,  you  know.'  No,  Miss  Herriott,  love — what  I 
call  love — is  a  sudden  brilliant  flame,  alike  for  man  and 
woman.  It  needs  no  arranging  of  dampers  to  make  it 
burn.  And  my  heroine  could  easily  love  like  that." 

"  Do  you  wish  my  '  candid  criticism?'  " 

"  Certainly."  He  reared  his  head  and  met  her  eyes 
dauntlessly. 

"  You  have  invested  a  woman  of  twenty-five  with  the 
attributes  of  a  girl  of  twenty.  Your  imagination  has  de- 
ceived you.  Beware  of  imagination,  Mr.  Kenyon." 

His  face  turned  a  dark  red.  He  sat  silent,  without 
stirring.  Suddenly  he  leaned  forward. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  I  do  not  believe  you  ?  Neither  do  you  be- 
lieve yourself." 

She  drew  back  haughtily,  her  face  white  in  its  indig- 
nant pride.  He  sprang  from  his  chair  and  took  a  stride 
across  the  room.  At  the  farther  end  he  turned  and  re- 
garded her. 

"Let  me  explain  myself,"  he  began,  swiftly.  "You 
say  an  older  woman  does  not  love  at  first  sight.  Do  you 
not  think  some  women  at  that  age  love  as  fatuously  as  a 
girl  of  twenty  ?" 

"  No." 

"Then  concede  that  certain  types  of  men  might  incite 
love,  the  passion,  in  the  heart  of  the  most  self-contained." 

She  considered  a  moment,  looking  thoughtfully  before 
her,  not  meeting  his  eyes. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  finally. 

He  took  a  step  forward,  then  turned  and  leaned  his 
arm  on  the  piano. 


51 


"  And  do  you  think  Carruthers— fills  the  bill  ?" 

She  smiled  involuntarily,  the  words  of  the  letter  she 
had  read  that  morning  recurring  to  her  on  the  instant. 

"You  are  better  able  to  judge  than  I,"  she  said.  "You 
have  painted  yourself,  I  think." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  But  I  cannot  help  myself,  you 
see.  I  need  the  heroine's  insight.  Can't  you  put  your 
self  in  her  place — for  to-night  ?" 

"  Impossible.  I  am  not  Protean.  Let  the  point  go, 
Mr.  Kenyon ;  you  know  the  girl  better  than  I." 

"  I  shall  not  change  it,"  he  said,  laughing  and  reseat- 
ing himself.  "  I  ask  you  to  criticise,  and  after  you  have 
done  so  I  cling  like  a  leech  to  my  own  opinions.  I  want 
things  to  turn  out  my  way,  whether  in  the  course  of  nat- 
ure or  through  my  distorted  fancy.  You  read  things 
more  profoundly,  or,  rather,  they  converse  with  you.  I 
am  not  like  that.  I  see  only  form  and  color ;  a  yellow 
primrose  to  me  is  nothing  but  a  yellow  primrose." 

"  You  are  mistaken  about  me.  Eleanor  has  a  fine  sub- 
jective mind — not  I." 

"Yes,  you  have,"  he  insisted,  inflexibly,  "through 
your  perfect  balance.  You  are  in  subtle  touch  with 
what  is  hidden.  Now  my  mental  epidermis  is  thick,  and 
I  miss  a  great  deal  of  the  beauty  of  the  occult." 

"And  the  misery.  That  is  why  your  stories  are  so 
happy." 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  it  is  a  compensation  which  I  don't 
value.  It  leaves  me  at  a  disadvantage  in  my  work." 

"  You  might  remedy  the  loss." 

"How?"' 

"  By  stooping  to  listen." 

"  I  don't  know  how.     I  am  provided  with  a  sort  of 


buoy  which  keeps  me  afloat.  I  can't  dive.  Miss  Her- 
riott,  I  know  there  is  something  lacking  in  my  work.  It 
is  like  the  faun — wild,  happy,  but  elusive.  You  could 
help  me."  His  voice  sank  to  low  beseeching. 

"  How  ?"  she  asked,  her  broad  gray  eyes  meeting  his 
wistfully. 

"  By  pointing  out  its  frailties  more  in  detail." 

"Indeed,  no.  I  am  not  a  reviewer  —  why  should  I 
make  myself  disagreeable  ?" 

"On  the  plea  of  friendship  —  not  disagreeable,  but 
kind.  Shall  we  make  a  compact,  and  agree  to  give  and 
take,  without  asking  pardon,  without  giving  thanks,  on 
the  broad,  unquestioning  understanding  which  binds  per- 
fect friends  ?" 

He  stood  before  her  with  outheld  hand.  She  put  hers 
into  it  hesitatingly,  yet  irresistibly. 

"It  will  be  all  take  for  me,"  she  said,  with  a  grave 
smile. 

"  Quien  sabe  ?  You  will  give  more  than  you  can  un- 
derstand," he  returned,  in  an  uncertain  undertone. 

"  It  would  be  pleasant  having  such  a  friend,"  she 
thought,  when  she  was  alone.  Yet  she  was  not  a  woman 
of  easy  friendship.  With  her  strong,  inward  life  and 
necessary  self-reliance  she  was  not  prone  to  make  a  con- 
fidant of  any  one,  and  thus  she  maintained  the  sover- 
eignty of  herself.  Yet  one  must  be  utterly  unworthy  if 
he  cannot  count  one  friend;  also  he  is  much  to  be  pitied. 
Constance,  in  the  truest  significance  of  the  term,  allowed 
herself  one  great  friend ;  but  in  that  instance  she  had 
always  known  that  she  must  take  more  than  she  could 
ever  give.  With  Hall  Kenyon  friendship  would  mean 
something  less  grave,  something  lighter  and  more  in- 


53 


tangible,  yet  bright  and  alluring  as  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  feel  herself  in  touch  with  his 
eager  ambitions. 

And  yet,  as  she  lay  in  her  bed  watching  the  star- 
beams  reflected  on  the  curtains,  a  bit  of  worldly  sophis- 
try passed  like  a  cloud  through  her  memory :  "  I  have 
little  belief,  as  a  rule,  in  friendships  between'  man  and 
woman — I  mean  when  both  the  people  concerned  have 
youth  and  imagination.  One  or  the  other  gets  generally 
more  or  less  than  was  bargained  for." 

"I  am  not  youthful,"  thought  Constance,  "and — " 
She  had  told  him  to  beware  of  imagination.  She  now 
reiterated  the  words  over  and  over  to  herself  as  she 
strove  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

As  the  weeks  slipped  into  months  Kenyon's  affairs 
began  to  adjust  themselves,  and  Brunton  announced  to 
him  that  his  presence  in  the  city  was  no  longer  required 
— he  could  leave  whenever  he  so  wished.  Kenyon,  how- 
ever, evinced  no  hurry.  He  was  knee-deep  in  engage- 
ments, doing  the  coast  conscientiously.  His  trip  to  the 
Yosemite  with  Joscelyn,  the  artist,  occupied  several 
weeks.  He  had  Monterey,  Santa  Barbara,  Coronado, 
and  the  Geysers  to  explore,  all  of  which  cut  into  his 
time,  and  made  his  dropping  down  upon  San  Francisco, 
his  headquarters,  intermittent  and  uncertain. 

Constance,  however,  usually  knew  when  he  had  come 
to  town.  A  bunch  of  flowers,  a  book,  or  a  note  soon 
became  recognized  avant  couriers  of  his  evening's  ad- 
vent. 

Generally  she  received  him  alone.  He  had  made  a 
fine  distinction  in  asking  for  "Miss  Herriott"  whenever 
he  could  summon  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for  her  at- 
tention exclusively.  At  other  times  he  walked  in  upon 
the  group  of  girls  in  the  library  with  the  sunny  assur- 
ance which  was  part  of  the  secret  of  his  geniality.  He 
met,  half- way,  the  people  for  whom  he  cared,  and,  if 
necessary,  finding  them  shy,  more  than  half-way.  It  re- 
quires a  fund  of  self-confidence  and  freedom  from  any 
doubt  of  the  desirability  of  one's  society  to  acquire  the 
ease.  Kenyon  would  have  been  keen  to  detect  the 


55 


moment  he  began  to  bore,  and  have  governed  himself 
accordingly.  His  perceptions  were  too  sensitive  to  allow 
his  inclinations  to  carry  him  where  congeniality  would 
be  set  at  defiance.  Only  an  ass  is  sure  of  himself  under 
all  circumstances.  But  the  happy  smiles  and  voices, 
the  little  gusts  of  joyousness,  and  movements  of  satis- 
faction with  which  they  greeted  him,  were  not  to  be 
misunderstood.  Formality  was  not  long  an  intruder  in 
his  presence.  The  Herriotts  gradually  began  to  regard 
him  as  a  family  friend,  though  of  a  caliber  which  made 
the  friendship  totally  different  from  their  relations  with 
Geoffrey  Brunton.  The  latter's  coming  had  long  ceased 
to  incite  any  excitement  in  their  midst.  He  was  one  of 
them.  A  stranger,  seeing  him  enter,  might  have  thought 
he  had  stepped  in  from  the  next  room,  or  returned  from 
a  few  minutes'  walk,  for  all  the  disturbance  he  occa- 
sioned. Often  he  brought  his  book,  and  they  would  re- 
sume theirs  as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption. 
They  knew  that  Geoffrey  was  comfortable,  and  had 
found  what  he  wanted  in  sitting  with  them. 

Hall  Kenyon's  personality  was  too  restless  to  provoke 
such  a  calm.  Brunton  acted  as  valerian,  Kenyon  as  vig- 
orous massage  ;  he  rubbed  and  pinched  and  kneaded 
their  wits  to  animation.  Grace  and  Edith  would  have 
described  the  feeling  his  appearance  produced  by  say- 
ing, "  We  are  going  to  have  a  splendid  time."  He  could 
tell  them  much.  He  had  travelled  a  great  deal  and  in 
many  odd  by-ways.  He  had  had  thrilling  as  well  as 
ludicrous  adventures  and  misadventures.  He  could  typ- 
ify vividly  with  an  adjective,  explain  sensations  by  an 
eloquent  pause  or  odd  facial  expression. 

Eleanor  alone  met  him  with  nonchalant  indifference,  a 


56 


fact  which  at  first  disconcerted  him,  but  which  he  finally 
accounted  a  bit  of  affectation  —  the  desire  of  a  young 
girl  who  has  seen  a  little  of  the  world  to  appear  blasee 
and  worldly  tolerant.  He  even  laughed  over  it  when  he 
noticed  how  quickly  her  real  self  came  to  the  front 
whenever  she  saw  a  chance  to  throw  in  a  wordy  missile 
and  make  him  enter  a  discussion  of  battledore-shuttlecock 
rapidity.  The  attack  was  always  spirited,  both  having 
the  courage  and  vim  of  their  convictions.  Eleanor  never 
called  a  truce ;  it  was  left  to  Kenyon  to  retreat  with  a 
laugh,  or,  occasionally,  with  a  flashing  eye  and  savagely 
compressed  lip.  Then  Constance's  quiet  voice  would 
be  heard  offering  amnesty  in  a  change  of  subject. 

It  is  hard  to  make  clear  the  older  girls'  feeling  for  him 
in  those  first  months.  Not  long  before,  a  gloomy  win- 
ter day  had  come  to  an  end,  and,  in  the  west,  in  the  re- 
gion of  the  setting  sun,  there  suddenly  appeared  a  great 
glory.  Billow  upon  billow  of  gold  was  massed  in  mar- 
vellous splendor ;  it  shot  a  pulsing  flame  throughout  the 
sombre  heavens,  it  illuminated  and  enraptured  the  earth 
in  tumultuous  warmth  ;  and  Constance,  as  those  who 
feel  such  things,  with  her  back  to  the  desolate,  dying 
day,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  glory,  would  have  hugged 
the  radiance  close  within  her  arms.  There  is  a  lan- 
guage which  has  no  words. 

He  had  written  Constance  a  note,  asking  her  to  allow 
him  to  take  her  and  Eleanor  to  hear  the  great  pianist 
who  had  eventually  arrived  in  the  music-hungry  little 
city. 

Constance  handed  Eleanor  the  note. 

"  Shall  we  go  ?"  she  asked,  easily,  when  Eleanor  had 
put  down  the  missive. 


57 


The  latter  was  leisurely  swinging  in  a  rocking-chair 
and  did  not  pause,  as  she  answered :  "  You  can  go.  I 
shall  not." 

"  Why  not  ?"  Constance  looked  at  her  anxiously.  She 
felt  a  great  longing  to  go  with  him. 

"  Because,  as  I  have  told  you  a  hundred  times,  I  never 
go  anywhere  on  toleration." 

"You  have  no  excuse  in  taking  such  a  stand  in  this 
case.  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  simply  that  Mr.  Hall  Kenyon  wishes  the 
pleasure  of  accompanying  Miss  Herriott  to  the  concert, 
and  asks  her  sister  Eleanor  along  for  mere  form's 
sake." 

"  I  could  say  the  same  with  the  names  reversed." 

"  It  would  be  a  lame  rejoinder.  You  know  otherwise. 
Mr.  Kenyon  does  not  send  you  flowers  and  bonbons 
and  marked  paragraphs  and  other  minutiae  because  he 
admires  your  sister  Eleanor,  my  dear  Constance.  He  is 
not  such  a  roundabout  man.  Nay,  nay,  take  your  music 
and  your  man  without  dividing ;  one  likes  a  monopoly 
when  it  comes  to  an  escort.  I  shall  leave  you  to  write 
your  most  gracious  of  responses."  She  went  into  her 
room,  singing  blithely. 

"  It  is  plain  enough,"  she  thought,  sitting  with  locked 
fingers — "  plain  enough.  I  am  a  fool.  Good  heavens, 
what  a  fool  I  am  !"  She  bit  her  lip  till  the  blood  came ; 
she  could  feel  her  temples  throbbing  at  a  wild  gallop ; 
she  sat  crouched  together  in  a  tense  attitude.  Pride 
and  jealousy  were  having  a  sharp  tussle  with  her.  The 
instinctive  conviction  that  she  was  only  an  afterthought 
stung  her  with  its  truth.  Had  she  been  indifferent  to 
him  this  consideration  would  have  had  little  weight; 


58 


but  as  it  was,  she  rose  in 'arms  at  the  slightest  hint  of 
her  unimportance. 

Yet,  as  she  recoiled,  a  sinuous  little  reptile  wound 
itself  about  her  heart,  and  made  her  sick  and  chill. 
"  They  will  be  alone  all  that  time,"  she  thought.  "  Con- 
stance will  look  beautiful,  and  he  will  have  eyes  and 
ears  for  nothing  but  her.  I  can  prevent  it.  If  I  go  he 
will  be  forced  to  pay  me  some  attention,  and  I  shall,  at 
any  rate,  hear  all  he  has  to  say  to  her.  I  wonder  if  the 
statue  has  some  Galatean  emotions.  I  believe  I  am  be- 
ginning to  hate  her.  Yes,  I'll  go." 

She  arose,  hesitating  for  only  a  second.  Constance 
would  regard  it  as  another  mark  of  caprice  ;  yes,  she 
would  make  capital  of  her  reputed  failing. 

"  After  all,"  she  called,  putting  her  head  in  at  Con- 
stance's door,  "I  believe  I  shall  go  to  that  concert. 
Might  as  well  take  a  gift  without  noticing  the  manner 
of  offering.  You  will  have  to  enjoy  it  with  me." 

"  I  should  not  have  gone  without  you,"  returned  Con- 
stance, quietly. 

So  they  went.  To  Constance,  music  was  always  a 
grave  joy.  There  were  some  strains,  she  had  told  Hall 
Kenyon  once,  which  would  make  dying  a  rapture.  And 
Kenyon  had  taken  up  his  violin  and  played  a  certain 
passage  which  made  her  start — she  had  been  thinking 
of  the  same  sublime  movement. 

To  Eleanor  the  music  was  but  an  accompaniment  to 
her  own  intoxicated  sensations.  Young  Love  is  an  auto- 
crat ;  like  the  king  of  egoists  it  cries,  "  I  am ;  and  while 
I  am,  there  is  no  one  else."  Eleanor  could  never  clearly 
recall  the  music  she  heard  that  evening.  A  great  wit 
once  wrote  that,  on  his  first  visit  to  Paris,  he  went  to 


59 


the  Opera  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  and  sat  behind 
a  woman  with  a  large  pink  tulle  hat ;  he  thus  saw  the 
Parisians  for  the  first  time  in  a  rose-colored  light,  and 
the  illusion  never  altogether  left  him.  So,  ever  after, 
when  Eleanor  heard  a  certain  marvellous  polonaise,  a 
great,  confused  pain  drew  her  silent. 

But  quite  suddenly  one  day  a  disturbing  element  en- 
tered the  happy  household.  Little  Nan  complained  of 
great  weariness  and  lassitude.  When  the  trouble  had 
continued  for  two  days,  Constance  called  in  the  phy- 
sician. 

"  Bring  her  to  me  every  day,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  try 
what  electricity  will  do  for  her.  Also  keep  her  in  the 
open  air  a  good  deal,  and  give  her  a  sea-bath  three  times 
a  week." 

"  It  is  foolish  to  worry,  Constance,"  Brunton  had  said. 
"  The  summer  is  lasting  too  long,  and  the  child  is  ener- 
vated. When  the  rains  set  in  she  will  be  all  right.  Let 
me  give  you  an  idea :  take  her  over  to  my  vineyard  at 
Napa.  Moore  and  his  wife  will  be  only  too  glad  to  make 
you  comfortable,  and  Eleanor  can  take  care  of  the 
others." 

"  The  doctor  said  electricity,"  she  reminded  him,  with 
a  shake  of  the  head. 

When  she  went  in  to  meet  Kenyon  that  evening  he 
started  and  changed  color.  He  had  never  seen  the 
great  blue  shadows  about  her  eyes,  he  had  never  seen 
her  look  quite  so  grave  and  sad.  She  was  not  given  to 
moods,  and  she  had  always  met  him  in  the  same  even 
manner.  With  him  it  had  been  different ;  he  had  come 
to  her  when  he  needed  her,  and  it  was  not  always  when 
he  was  happiest. 


60 


He  held  her  hand  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 
Then: 

"  Shall  I  go  away  ?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"  No,  no,"  she  murmured.     "  I — " 

"  Hush,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  try  to  explain.  It  is 
about  one  of  the  children — little  Nan,  perhaps." 

She  could  not  understand  why  his  voice,  his  presence, 
should  make  her  suddenly  feel  so  weak  and  womanish  ; 
her  figure  drooped  as  she  sat,  her  eyes  were  suffused 
with  tears.  No  one  had  seen  Constance  cry  since  her 
mother's  death. 

"  She  is  so  tired,"  she  faltered,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand,  "  and  the  doctor  speaks  so  doubtfully.  I  have 
very  little  courage.  I  cannot  do  without  Nan ;  she  is 
my  shrine." 

"  She  understands  without  seeing,"  put  in  Kenyon 
with  another  touch  of  the  intuition  which  always  made 
her  fearful.  "But  I  do  not  think  she  is  going  to  be 
taken  from  you.  Trust  me ;  I  often  augur  right  about 
these  things.  And  then  with  such  care  as  you  give — " 

"  It  is  not  a  mother's  care." 

"  It  is  more — it  is  a  devotee's.  That  is  where  you  al- 
most err — in  being  too  kind.  Relax  a  little ;  think  of 
yourself,  and  every  small  ill  will  not  prove  a  great 
scourge.  Love  is  not  blind  in  trouble  ;  it  wears  a  mag- 
nifying -  glass.  You  see  things  in  distorted  largeness. 
Will  you  not  take  care  of  yourself  too,  for — all  our 
sakes  ?"  He  looked  down  at  her  in  serious  pleading. 

"  You  are  so  insistent,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"  It  is  my  prerogative.  And  now  shall  I  go,  or  do 
you  wish  me  to  stay  ?" 

"  Don't  go,"  she  said,  putting  out  a  hand. 


61 


When  he  left  he  exacted  a  promise  from  her  to  come 
with  all  the  children  to  his  Sausalito  home  on  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday. 

"  My  tenure  of  the  place  expires  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  Let  us  make  a  holiday  as  a  souvenir,"  he  said. 

The  soft  October  Saturday  was  in  a  charming  mood, 
and  they  all  seemed  to  have  caught  the  infection. 

Kenyon  met  them  at  the  pier  with  a  roomy  wagonette. 
The  hills  were  too  stiff  and  held  themselves  too  high,  he 
said,  to  be  walked  over  with  impunity. 

"  A  fig  for  their  assumption  !"  scoffed  Eleanor,  as  she 
started  gayly  off  by  herself,  with  Edith  soon  after  her 
heels. 

Mrs.  Granniss,  fanning  herself  down  the  central  garden- 
path  in  a  plump,  downy  fashion,  announced  her  chape- 
ronage,  and  made  them  each  at  home  with  a  kiss. 

"  Regard  me  as  a  mere  figure-head,  my  dear  girls," 
she  said,  with  a  round-throated,  gurgling  laugh,  as  they 
laid  off  their  wraps  in  the  cool,  bamboo-furnished  little 
parlor.  "  Flirt  as  much  as  you  want  with  Mr.  Kenyon, 
because  I  know  he  is  the  most  charming  fellow  in  the 
world.  There  is  safety  in  numbers,  I  suppose.  My  dear 
doctor  will  be  over  as  soon  as  he  has  finished  his  ser- 
mon. He  would  rather  miss  his  chance  of  a  mansion  in 
the  skies  than  the  opportunity  of  a  talk  with  you,  Con- 
stance dear."  She  was  a  woman  who  dealt  in  superla- 
tives. The  sweet  old  lady's  imagination  seemed  to  have 
expanded  to  keep  pace  with  her  superfluous  stock  of 
flesh. 

Wong,  the  Chinaman,  was  in  touch  with  the  day,  and 
outdid  himself  in  the  dainty  feast  spread  under  the 
autumn  -  leaved  trees.  The  gold  and  crimson  leaves 


underfoot  were  a  soft,  rustling  carpet  for  their  feet ;  now 
and  then  a  single,  glowing  leaf  fell  upon  the  snowy  cloth 
like  a  whisper — a  reminder  of  departing  glory. 

"  It  is  a  day  that  sings,"  said  Eleanor,  leaning  back  in 
her  chair,  the  flickering  shadows  of  the  boughs  over- 
head swaying  over  her  face  and  hair.  "  It  is  one  of 
those  that  we  remember  years  after  through  a  touch  of 
perfume  in  the  atmosphere,  like  a  song  which  we  recall 
inexplicably  days  after  we  have  heard  it  sung.  I  wonder 
what  it  is  like  to  be  a  bird.  I'll  be  one."  She  laughed 
gayly  at  her  own  words,  sprang  from  her  seat,  and  the 
next  instant  had  climbed  agilely  to  a  high  branch  in  the 
old,  deep-limbed  oak  at  the  side  of  the  house.  A  few 
minutes  later  Edith  and  Grace  started  off  arm  in  arm. 
Kenyon,  noticing  Nan's  eyes  closing,  picked  her  up  and 
moved  with  her  toward  the  hammock. 

"  She  wants  to  be  lazy,  Miss  Herriott,"  he  called  back, 
"  and  she  shall  be  whatever  she  wishes  to-day.  Eh, 
Nan  ?" 

Mrs.  Granniss  toddled  good-naturedly  after  him,  and 
seated  herself  in  a  deep,  cane-bottomed  chair  on  the 
clematis-empurpled  porch.  Kenyon  placed  the  child  in 
the  hammock,  and,  swaying  her  to  and  fro,  began  to  sing 
in  his  soft,  rich  voice  a  Tyrolean  lullaby.  His  eyes  fol- 
lowed, for  a  moment,  Constance  Herriott  strolling  about 
with  Marjorie  and  Dr.  Granniss.  A  smile  played  over 
his  mouth  when  he  noted  the  reverend  gentleman's  court- 
liness; he  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  as  they  walked  under 
the  shadowy  trees,  the  sunlight  sifting  in  rifts  upon  his 
silvery  hair. 

"  Look  at  my  -dear  doctor,  Mr.  Kenyon,"  said  Mrs. 
Granniss,  in  guileless,  childlike  pride,  speaking  in  a  low 


63 


tone  as  she  noticed  that  Nan  slept.  "  Do  you  observe 
how  he  holds  his  hat  in  his  hand  when  he  talks  to  Con- 
stance Herriott?  That  is  to  show  his  deference.  He 
used  to  do  the  same  when  he  met  her  mother.  He  would 
actually  stand  bareheaded  on  Market  Street  while  he 
talked  to  her,  until  the  dear  lady  begged  him  to  cover 
his  head.  He  worshipped  that  woman,  and  he  showed 
it ;  but  as  to  being  jealous,  I  should  have  as  soon  thought 
of  being  jealous  of  his  worship  of  God.  And  he  has 
passed  on  the  feeling  to  her  daughter.  I  verily  believe 
he  would  do  anything  short  of  crime  for  that  girl.  And 
no  wonder — just  look  at  her." 

His  eyes  turned  with  a  slow,  tender  light  toward  Con- 
stance disappearing  at  a  turn  with  the  child  and  the  old 
man.  A  shower  of  leaves  startled  them.  Eleanor  had 
slipped  from  her  perch  and  vanished  like  a  flash. 

"That  girl  is  a  veritable  Jack-o'-Lantern,"  observed 
Mrs.  Granniss,  in  a  perplexed  tone. 

"  And  she — she  is  like  yonder  peace,"  thought  Hall 
Kenyon,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  broad,  tender  blue  over- 
head, where  a  single,  slow-moving  gull  soared  into  the 
distance  like  a  dream  of  infinity. 

"  It  has  been  a  beautiful  day,"  said  little  Nan,  when 
he  kissed  her  good-bye. 

"  And  in  a  few  days,"  he  said  to  Constance,  as  she 
turned  to  join  the  others,  "  I  am  coming  to  read  my  last 
chapters.  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  story." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  the  first  rain  of  the  season.  It  had  been  com- 
ing down  all  day  with  the  mad  fury  which  follows  long 
restraint.  As  night  set  in  the  storm  gathered  in  in- 
tensity ;  or  is  it  only  the  stillness  of  the  night  which 
brings  into  such  powerful  prominence  the  clamor  of  the 
elements  warring  with  dumb  nature  and  the  silent  mani- 
festations of  human  creation  ?  The  weird  grandeur  was 
reminiscent  of  Wagner.  The  Herriotts,  singing  in  their 
firelit  drawing-room,  raised  their  voices  to  the  utmost 
volume  to  drown  the  tumult  without. 

Eleanor,  sitting  near  the  fireplace,  wrapped  in  a  fleecy 
white  shawl,  appeared  relieved  when  the  singing  ceased. 
Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes  heavy ;  she  was  suffering 
with  a  severe  cold  which  she  had  brought  home  with 
her  from  Sausalito. 

Edith  had  thrown  herself  at  full  length  on  the  hearth- 
rug, Grace  had  picked  up  a  volume  of  Tennyson  ready 
to  read  an  exquisite  fragment  from  the  "  Idyls,"  and 
Constance  was  just  about  going  up-stairs  with  the  chil- 
dren when  Brunton  came  in. 

"  No,  I  won't  sit  down,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  their 
vociferations.  "  I  just  came  in  to  tell  you  that  I  shall 
call  for  you  to-morrow  evening  for  the  Ferris  dinner,  if 
you  have  made  no  other  arrangements."  He  stood  near 
the  door  in  his  heavy  water-coat,  and  looked  at  Con- 
stance. . 


65 


"  I  had  made  no  arrangements.  Thanks,  Geoffrey  ;  it 
will  be  pleasant  going  with  you.  But  why  do  you 
venture  out  in  the  storm  merely  to  deliver  a  message 
when  you  have  no  intention  of  staying  ?" 

"  I  have  an  engagement  with  a  fellow  at  my  club. 
You  do  look  snug  and  cosey."  His  eye  swept  about  the 
group.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  have  a  cold." 

"  Well,  coddle  it.  Nan  has  a  pretty  winter  rose  in 
either  cheek,  I  see.  I  assure  you  this  room  is  a  power- 
ful antithesis  to  the  unhappy  night.  I  hope  you  don't 
"depreciate  your  good-luck  in  being  all  safe  together." 

"Stay  and  'reminisce'  with  us,  Geoffrey,"  begged 
Edith. 

"  I  should  like  to,  but  I  am  dragged  from  you  by  the 
teeth  of  my  appointment.  Well,  good-night." 

In  the  hall  he  stopped  to  put  on  his  mackintosh. 

"  Go  back  into  the  room  while  I  open  the  door,  Con- 
stance," he  said,  picking  up  his  hat  and  umbrella. 

"Geoffrey,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  pucker  of  the 
brows,  "  you  are  looking  ill.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Eh  ?  Want  of  grit,  I  suppose."  He  opened  the 
door  hurriedly,  and  stood  on  the  step  to  open  his  um- 
brella. 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  half  as  good  care  of  yourself 
as  you  do  of  others."  She  held  the  door  open,  the  flick- 
ering gaslight  from  the  hall  falling  upon  his  thin,  plain 
face  as  he  looked  into  her  earnest  eyes. 

"  Do  you  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden,  unexpected,  hard 
laugh.  "What  for?"  Before  she  could  reply  he  had 
lifted  his  hat  and  gone  down  the  steps. 


66 


"  Let  us  go  to  bed,  too,  Edith,"  said  Grace,  after  a  lit- 
tle, when  Constance  had  gone  off  with  the  children.  "  I 
love  to  lie  in  bed  and  listen  to  the  rain.  Come  along, 
Ede." 

And  presently  Eleanor  found  herself  alone.  The 
stress  of  the  storm  had  beat  her  into  apathy,  and  her 
heavy  eyes  closed. 

A  few  minutes  later  Kenyon  came  into  the  room.  The 
maid,  recognizing  him,  had  told  him  that  the  family  was 
in  here,  and  he  walked  in  without  ceremony. 

He  was  disconcerted  when  he  found  himself  alone 
with  the  sleeping  girl ;  but  she  would  waken  soon,  he 
thought,  and  Miss  Herriott  would  probably  be  in  in  a 
few  minutes. 

He  picked  up  the  volume  of  Tennyson  which  Grace 
had  thrown  down,  arid  seated  himself  at  some  distance. 
The  book  was  open  where  the  girl  had  been  reading. 
Glancing  casually  through  the  lines,  he  lingered  with  a 
smile  over  the  closing  stanza,  where  the  poet's  pen  had 
rounded  the  picture  with  an  irrepressible  note  of  passion  : 

"  A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips." 

Dreamily  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  girl  before 
him.  Her  red,  flower-like  lips  were  slightly  parted  ;  the 
heat  of  the  fire  had  flung  a  velvet  rose  upon  her  cheek ; 
her  bright,  bronze  hair,  loosely  braided  together,  fell 
soft  about  her  face.  The  words  of  the  poet  echoed  sub- 
tly as  he  suddenly  felt  her  witching  beauty;  yet  the 
feeling  was  simply  appreciative  —  something  had  gone 


67 


from  him  to  make  the  sensation  a  temptation.  As  he 
looked  her  eyelids  fluttered,  and  his  eyes  fell  quickly 
again  upon  the  page.  When  he  glanced  up  he  saw  that 
she  was  intently  regarding  him.  He  arose  at  once. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Miss  Eleanor  ?"  he  asked,  coming 
toward  her,  and  holding  out  his  hand  deferentially. 

"  I  caught  cold  over  at  Sausalito  the  other  day,"  she 
replied,  letting  her  lingers  touch  his  for  the  space  of  a 
second. 

"  That  is  too  bad.  It  seems  as  though  I  were  always 
to  be  the  cause  of  some  discomfiture  to  you.  I  am 
heartily  sorry  for  it.  You  will  end  by  avoiding  me  as 
you  would  the  plague." 

"My  mental  constitution  is  in  good  sanitary  condi- 
tion. I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  was  the  rejoinder. 
"  And  as  to  plagues,  the  only  ones  to  be  avoided  are 
those  which  leave  one  unsightly." 

"And  those  which  hurl  you  away  without  warning?" 

"  Good  and  welcome.  They  are  the  most  considerate 
of  friends.  The  best  deaths  are  like  dawning  —  early, 
and  soon  over." 

"  Very  well  and  young  people  feel  quite  brave  in  mak- 
ing grimaces  at  death — it  is  a  remote  contingency  with 
them.  Now  I  feel  rather  diffident  about  going  hence. 
I  like  novelty,  but  not  shocks.  If  I  am  going  to  enter- 
tain the  kingly  stranger  I  should  like  to  be  prepared.  I 
should  wish  the  feast  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  guest. 
Fact  is,  Miss  Eleanor,  I  believe  I'm  not  good  enough  to 
die."  He  was  laughing  down  at  her,  amused  with  her 
moody  talk. 

"Pooh!  Good  enough?"  she  retorted,  cynically. 
"  For  what  ?  to  turn  to  dust  3" 


68 


"  Listen,"  he  said,  swiftly.  As  lie  spoke,  the  low, 
rumbling  thunder  approached  like  a  mighty  voice,  rolled 
into  the  distance,  and  died  in  the  incessant  swish  of  the 
rain.  Eleanor  turned  pale. 

"  The  Valkyries  are  making  a  night  of  it,"  he  observed, 
lightly,  and  just  then  Constance  entered.  At  sight  of 
Kenyon  she  started  in  surprise. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  here,"  she  said,  meeting 
him  with  gentle  composure.  "  I  am  half  glad  and  half 
angry  to  see  you.  Only  extreme  friendliness  or  extreme 
carelessness  would  bring  you  out  on  such  a  night." 

"  I  told  you  I  was  coming,"  he  replied,  in  a  low  voice, 
drawing  up  a  chair  for  her. 

"Ah  yes,  with  the  last  chapters.  Have  you  them 
with  you?"  She  looked  up  at  him  eagerly.  She  no- 
ticed that  he  was  pale,  and  her  heart  smote  her  with 
an  inexplicable  foreboding.  "Sit  down,"  she  added, 
quickly. 

"  This  is  a  good  seat,  Mr.  Kenyon,"  cut  in  Eleanor, 
rising,  as  he  turned  for  a  chair. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Constance,  hurriedly. 

"To  entertain  myself.  I  have  been  inconsiderate  too 
long  already." 

"Don't  go,"  said  Constance,  putting  her  hand  on  her 
shoulder  impulsively.  "  Mr.  Kenyon  will  postpone  his 
reading.  We  must  amuse  Eleanor  to-night,"  she  added, 
turning  to  where  he  stood  resting  his  hand  on  a  chair. 
"  She  is  not  well." 

"  Nonsense,"  asserted  Eleanor,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 
"  I  draw  the  line  at  being  the  party  of  the  third  part. 
Besides,  I  would  not  postpone  Mr.  Kenyon's  reading  for 
the  world.  Let  go,  Constance." 


"  Do  stay,  Miss  Eleanor,"  said  Kenyon,  with  abrupt 
earnestness.  His  glance  swept  past  Constance  with 
studied  nonchalance.  He  meant  her  to  stay  now,  and  his 
voice  was  almost  commanding.  "  If  it  will  not  be  too  irk- 
some for  you,  I  should  like  to  have  you  listen.  Will  you?" 

"  You  put  it  so  that  one  cannot  refuse,"  she  said,  re- 
seating herself  somewhat  dazedly.  She  was  dimly  con- 
scious that  she  was  being  made  a  cat's-paw  of,  that  she 
was  to  be  used  as  a  blind  wall  between  two  forces  which 
threatened  to  meet. 

"  Will  you  give  your  sister  the  points  of  the  plot, 
Miss  Herriott  ?"  he  asked  with  marked  carelessness,  as 
he  busied  himself  with  his  note -book.  His  tone  cut 
Constance  rudely.  She  looked  at  him  in  fleet  reproach; 
He  did  not  return  the  glance.  Eleanor's  narrowing  eyes 
were  upon  them  with  instinctive  bitterness.  In  a  low 
voice  Constance  commenced  to  tell  the  story.  Kenyon's 
hands  ceased  to  turn  the  leaves  while  he  listened  to  her 
full  voice,  repeating  his  thoughts,  his  play  of  imagina- 
tion. She  spoke  concisely,  but  with  the  clearness  of 
perfect  knowledge. 

"  Do  you  quite  understand,  Miss  Eleanor  ?"  he  asked, 
when  Constance  paused. 

"  Quite,"  she  returned,  with  brilliant,  excited  eyes. 

"  Then  I  shall  finish."  He  picked  up  the  manuscript, 
the  beat  of  annoyance  dying  out  of  his  voice  as  he  read. 
Constance  sat  quite  still.  His  manner  had  silenced  her 
effectually.  Only  Eleanor,  roused  to  feverish  excitement, 
seemed  to  vibrate  under  his  words. 

"  Well  ?"  he  demanded,  when  he  had  finished.  He 
regarded  Eleanor  unseeingly  ;  he  was  conscious  only  of 
Constance's  statuesque  face  beside  her. 


70 


There  was  a  long  pause.  Eleanor's  fingers  locked  and 
unlocked  themselves  as  if  struggling  to  say  something. 

"  It  is  clever,"  she  said,  in  a  slow,  restrained  manner 
which  belied  her  face.  "  And  you  are  kind  to  give  it  a 
happy  ending,  but  it  is  not  at  all  natural." 

"  Why  not  ?"  He  shifted  .his  position,  partly  turning 
from  Constance,  and  getting  a  fuller  view  of  the  younger 
girl. 

"  Your  heroine  could  not  have  married  Atwyn  and 
have  loved  him,  as  you  lead  us  to  infer." 

"  Why  not?" 

"  She  loved  Carruthers." 

"  But  Carruthers  was  dead." 

"  His  death  is  nothing.     A  woman  can  love  only  once." 

"  Is  she  as  poor  as  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  as  strong." 

"  I  think  you  must  admit  that  example  goes  to  prove 
that  a  woman  can  love  and  forget,  if  put  to  the  test." 

"  Not  if  she  really  loved.  Real  love  is  not  a  possi- 
bility with  every  woman,  you  know.  She  might  marry 
another,  but  not  love  him  as  you  say  that  girl  loved. 
Love  has  no  duplicates.  There  is  the  original.  All  the 
other  forms  are  something  paler  and  less." 

"  But,"  he  insisted,  "  women  marry  for  love  after  a 
disappointment." 

"  There  is  a  slight  distinction.  You  do  not  make  it. 
They  may  marry  for  love,  but  not  out  of  love." 

"That  is  sad.  Is  there  then  no  cure  for  love — un- 
realized ?" 

She  looked  past  him  dreamily. 

"  Shall  I  answer  with  a  bit  of  fantasy  ?" 

"  How  ?" 


71 


"Listen."  She  flung  her  arms  over  her  head  in  a 
manner  peculiarly  her  own.  She  was  intoxicated  with 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  holding  his  attention  for 
almost  the  first  time  without  the  fractious  sparring  into 
which  they  had  always  fallen. 

"  I'll  put  it  in  the  form  of  narrative.  Let  us  call  it 
*  Love's  Antidote  —  for  Women.'  "  She  paused  for  a 
fleeting  second,  and  then  dashed  on.  "This  is  how  it 
was  discovered :  There  was  once  a  beautiful  woman 
whom  I  shall  call  —  well,  the  Lady  Margaret.  One  day 
her  people  noticed  that  she  had  grown  strangely  weary. 
Quite  suddenly  it  dawned  upon  them,  and  they  put  out 
their  hands  as  if  to  stay  her,  for  she  had  grown  frail  as 
well.  Then,  because  they  loved  her,  they  called  in  phy- 
sicians. They  shook  their  heads  and  departed  —  there 
was  no  ailment.  But  one,  more  wise  than  the  rest,  said, 
1  This  is  not  of  the  body  !  I  cannot  minister  to  a  dying 
heart !  You  must  wean  her  from  herself  —  interest  her, 
distract  her.'  It  was  easily  said,  and  they  thought  to 
carry  it  out  as  easily.  But  all  their  efforts  proved  un- 
availing. Daily  she  grew  more  listless,  more  intangible, 
more  removed.  And  one  day,  through  chance,  they 
discovered  that  it  was  the  shadow  of  a  great  love  which 
hung  over  her  —  a  love  for  one  who  had  proved  un- 
worthy. Then,  by  hints  and  innuendoes,  by  open  tales 
of  his  egoism  and  profligacy,  they  strove  to  dispel  the 
charm  which  invested  him  in  her  heart.  But  she  looked 
at  them  with  sad,  indulgent  eyes  and  the  shafts  fell  at 
their  own  feet.  So  one  day,  when  she  sat  in  the  midst 
of  sunshine  and  roses,  there  came  up  the  sunlit  path  a 
peddler  with  his  pack.  He  was  brown  as  a  bronze,  slim 
and  straight  as  an  arrow ;  around  his  head  was  twisted  a 


red  silk  scarf,  and  she  knew  he  was  of  the  Orient. 
Silently  his  pack  slid  to  the  grass,  and  he,  beside  it, 
opened  to  her  view  his  store  of  treasures :  silks  soft 
and  lustrous  as  the  sun,  broideries  stiff  and  gorgeous 
with  gold,  dimities  fit  for  a  fairy,  ivories  carved  as  with 
a  lace  needle.  But  she  only  looked,  and  said  nothing. 
And  when  he  had  come  to  the  end,  still  silently  he  put 
them  back,  and  rose  and  stood  before  her  like  a  gleam- 
ing bronze,  and  looked  upon  her  spiritual  beauty.  Then, 
stooping,  he  laid  something  within  her  hand,  and,  like  a 
dream  of  mysticism,  passed  down  the  sunlit  path.  Cu- 
riously, then,  she  looked  at  that  which  she  held.  It  was 
a  dainty  ivory  box,  upon  the  face  of  which  were  carved 
the  words:  'Love's  Antidote  —  for  Women.'  With  a 
look  of  wonder  she  lifted  the  lid.  Within,  exquisitely 
wrought  in  ivory,  lay  —  a  tiny  skull  and  cross-bones. 
The  Lady  Margaret  let  her  hands  fall  in  her  lap.  She 
smiled,  and — waited." 

Eleanor  ceased  to  speak,  but  did  not  look  at  Kenyon. 

"  You  improvise  admirably.  That  is  a  pretty  conceit, 
but  the  ending  is  too  sad,"  he  remarked,  finally. 

"I  said  she  smiled.     Is  that  sad?" 

After  a  pause  he  spoke  again,  glancing  swiftly  from 
Constance's  slightly  flushed  face  to  this  new  interlocutor. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  women  would  agree  to  the 
truth  of  your  conception.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  per- 
tinent question.  Do  you  speak  from  experience  or 
imagination  ?" 

"  From  neither.     I  speak  from  conviction." 

"  Ah !  But  convictions  are  relative,  not  to  be  taken 
as  axioms.  Will  you  let  me  criticise  now  ?  The  in- 
scription on  the  box  was  too  wordy." 


73 


"  In  what  respect  ?" 

"  You  unnecessarily  added  *  For  women.'  It  holds  as 
well  for  men." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  It  is  woman's  one  coffer.  Man's 
love  has  departments." 

"  Pardon  me,  you  know  nothing  about  it." 

"And  you?"  she  asked,  rising  and  regarding  him 
rather  defiantly.  "  Do  you  speak  from  experience  or 
imagination  ?" 

His  face  flamed  hotly,  he  caught  his  breath  hard. 
"  From  neither,"  he  replied — "  from  conviction." 

Whereupon  they  both  laughed.  It  is  a  strangely  ac- 
commodating thing,  a  laugh ;  it  covers  many  an  awkward 
heart  secret.  Under  its  cloak  Eleanor  left  the  room. 

She  sped  up-stairs  to  her  own  room,  shut  and  locked 
the  door,  and  leaned  against  it  as  if  some  one  were  at- 
tempting an  entrance.  She  became  conscious  that  she 
was  breathing  heavily,  and  she  strove  to  quiet  herself  by 
closing  her  eyes ;  the  effort  was  useless.  She  moved 
over  to  her  bureau  and  groped  for  a  match.  Finding 
none,  she  stood  still  in  the  dark. 

"Why  did  I  tell  it?"  she  muttered.  "Why  could  I 
not  control  myself  ?  Why  could  I  not  cover  my  heart  by 
keeping  still  ?  Must  my  mouth  always  betray  me  ?  Does 
he  know  ?  Does  he  surmise  ?  Is  he  laughing  at  me — or 
pitying  me  ?  Oh,  merciful  oblivion,  don't  let  me  think  !" 
She  brought  her  fist  down  fiercely  against  the  bedpost. 
It  was  merely  another  woman  groaning  over  impulsive 
words  spoken  past  recall ;  it  was  merely  tardy  pride  upon 
the  rack  of  remorse. 

Presently  her  face  ceased  to  quiver;  a  listening,  stealthy 
stillness  enveloped  her  from  head  to  foot.  "  What  is  he 


74 


saying  to  her?"  was  the  slow  thought  which  took  pos- 
session of  her.  "  I  know.  I  could  see  it  in  his  face.  And 
she  ?  What,will  she  answer?  I  must  know — I  shall  know." 

The  stealthy  stillness  communicated  itself  to  her  move- 
ments. She  drew  the  shawl  over  her  head,  carefully 
unlocked  her  door,  and  passed  out.  Like  a  noiseless 
somnambulist  she  glided  down  the  stairs,  the  stealthy 
stillness  rising  to  cunning  care  in  her  young,  impassioned 
face.  Still  creeping,  she  passed  down  the  long  hallway, 
entered  the  darkened  library,  and  drew  near  the  heavy 
folding  -  doors  dividing  it  from  the  drawing-room.  A 
line  ,of  light  escaped  between  the  locks.  Slowly  sinking 
to  her  knees,  she  looked  in.  It  was  the  first  low  act 
Eleanor  Herriott  had  ever  committed.  Passionate,  ca- 
pricious, vain,  she  may  have  been ;  but  hitherto  she  had 
been  too  brave  to  stoop  to  tell  even  a  childish  lie.  And 
yet,  as  she  crouched  there,  she  was  utterly  insensible  to 
the  fact  that  she  was  debasing  her  finer  instincts.  She 
was  in  torture,  and  torture,  whether  of  mind  or  body, 
means  distortion. 

She  saw  the  two,  still  seated  where  she  had  left  them. 
She  could  distinctly  discern  their  every  movement,  dis- 
tinctly hear  their  every  word.  Constance  was  speaking 
with  unusual  volubility. 

"  So  I  decided  to  let  her  remain  home  to-day.  You 
have  no  idea  what  a  boy  Edith  is.  Happening  to  glance 
out  of  the  window  during  the  morning,  I  saw  her  making 
her  way  through  the  mud  on  little  Teddie  Barlow's  stilts, 
looking  as  happy  as  the  first  bird  who  has  espied  the  first 
leaf  of  spring.  She  is  so  happy  when  she  is  mischievous 
that  my  reprimands  always  sound  cruel.  But  what  can 
I  do  ?" 


75 


No  answer.     She  hurriedly  continued : 

"  I  have  never  seen  it  rain  so  steadily.  Listen.  It 
seems  to  be  slackening." 

It  was ;  the  sound  came  fitfully  now  like  a  tired  child 
sobbing  wearily  in  his  sleep ;  the  wind  wailed  eeriely  in 
a  witch-like  interlude. 

Constance  moved  uneasily.  The  watching  girl  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door  noticed,  with  the  keenness  of  jeal- 
ousy, the  queenly  head,  the  full,  perfect  figure,  the  white 
symmetry  of  the  firm  hands.  Kenyon  sat  quietly  before 
her,  his  dark,  clear-cut  face  bereft  of  its  warm  under- 
glow. 

"And  will  you  send  the  book  off  at  once?"  she  asked, 
desperately. 

"  That  depends." 

"Upon  what?" 

"  Upon  you." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  burden  me  with  the  respon- 
sibility. What  more  can  I  do  than  to  hope  that  others 
will  look  upon  it  as  favorably  as  I?  Have  I  not  criti- 
cised and  made  myself  as  disagreeable  as  the  most  dis- 
passionate of  reviewers  ?  Have  I  not  told  you  wherein 
I  find  it  fine,  interesting,  and  moving  ?  What  more  can 
I  possibly  say  ?" 

"  Constance." 

At  the  low  call,  so  full  of  intensity  that  it  seemed  life- 
less, the  light  left  her  face — it  was  waxen.  She  put  up 
her  hand. 

"Hush!"  she  commanded. 

"  I  have  spoken.     I  am  waiting  for  your  answer." 

She  looked  at  him  fearfully.  She  knew  that  all  had 
been  implied  when  he  spoke  her  name.  They  had  both 


76 


reached  that  stage  of  intuition  where  higher  thoughts 

O  O  O 

require  no  verbal  medium  to  make  them  understood. 

"  You  must  not,"  she  breathed,  almost  mechanically. 

"  You  speak  too  late." 

"  We  were  friends." 

"  Never." 

He  arose,  the  restraint  he  had  put  upon  himself  well- 
nigh  suffocating  him. 

"  I  have  never  been  your  friend,"  he  said,  the  hot  blood 
rising  to  his  temples,  his  eyes  dangerously  bright.  "  I 
have  loved  you  since  the  moment  I  met  you.  Let  me 
confess.  I  did  not  want  your  friendship.  I  did  not 
need  it.  Men  could  suffice  me  there.  I  wanted  you, 
your  love,  your  tenderness,  your  womanhood.  Friend- 
ship ?  Are  you  so  utterly  blind  to  yourself  as  to  think 
any  man  could  be  to  you  as  I  have  been  and  not  be- 
come your  lover?  Must  I  tell  you  that  you  have  be- 
come my  very  life  and  senses?  that  I  walk,  talk,  think, 
sleep,  breathe,  with  but  your  image  before  me  ?  Answer 
me.  Did  you  not  know  this  ?" 

His  imperious,  impassioned  voice  ceased ;  there  was  a 
breathless  pause.  The  girl  crouching,  sick  and  numb, 
behind  the  door  put  her  hand  to  her  throat — she  was 
choking. 

"No,"  answered  Constance,  in  slow,  painful  precision, 
"  I  did  not  know !  If  I  had  known,  honor  would  have 
forbidden  me  to  look  upon  you  long  ago.  Was  it  not 
clear  to  you,  did  no  one  ever  tell  you,  that  I  am  — 
pledged?" 

"  Pledged !"  he  echoed. 

"  Yes ;  pledged  to  these  children." 

He  looked  at  her  without  comprehension. 


77 


"  Did  you  not  know,"  she  went  on,  in  gentle  quiet,  the 
effort  of  making  herself  quite  clear  bringing  out  the 
words  in  strange  slowness,  "  that  years  ago  *I  made  a 
promise  to  my  own  dear  mother  never  to  leave  them  ? 
That  they  are  my  children  now  ?  That  Constance  Her- 
riott's  life  is  not  hers  to  give  to  any  man  ?" 

A  smile  lit  up  the  pallor  of  his  face.  "Ah,  Constance," 
he  said,  "  the  age  of  martyrs  is  past.  You  take  your 
promise  too  severely,  surely  not  as  the  mother  who  loved 
you  intended.  They  can  still  be  your  children  —  you 
need  never  leave  them." 

"  It  would  not  be  the  same,"  she  said,  drawing  back 
unconsciously.  "  They  would  be  pushed  aside  by — an- 
other. Forgive  me — I  thought  you  knew.  I  meant  to 
be  your  friend." 

"  No,"  he  said,  moving  nearer,  "  no.  You  know  that 
is  false.  I  know — and  you  know — that  you  love  me." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  chair  rolling,  from  her  vio- 
lence, to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  She  confronted 
him,  white  and  forbidding. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  with  the  hauteur  of  a 
queen.  "  Your  own — conceit — has  deceived  you.  And 
I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me." 

He  made  a  movement  toward  her,  but  the  icy  chill  of 
her  attitude,  the  calm,  menacing  eyes  rooted  him  where 
he  stood.  His  face  was  ashen. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  through  parched  lips,  "  are  you  a 
woman,  after  all  ?  You  lead  a  man  to  love  you  with  the 
desperation  of  life,  and  then  calmly  stand  there  and  say 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  love.  You  are  as  hard 
as  granite.  You  have  no  pity.  You  look  at  stars,  and 
trample  the  flowers  under  your  feet.  Your  virtue  is  so 


78 


high  that  you  have  ceased  to  be  human.  You  should 
not  tamper  with  the  earthly  heart  of  a  man — you,  who 
are  of  stone." 

She  stood  quite  still  under  his  mad  revilings,  her 
bloodless,  dispassionate  face  never  flinching.  Suddenly 
he  held  out  his  hands  in  agony. 

"  Constance,"  he  entreated,  "  consider.  You  will  not 
wreck  my  whole  life  for  me.  I — I  shall  make  you  so 
happy !" 

She  stood  white  and  moveless.  "  I  have  told  you  al- 
ready," she  uttered,  in  almost  a  monotone,  "  that  I  could 
not  and  I  would  not  be  your  wife.  You  say  you  love 
me.  It  is  fancy,  an  infatuation.  I  am  older  than  you — 
at  least,  through  circumstance.  You  are  a  boy  to  me. 
It  would  be  like  tying  a  kite  to — a  stone.  You  would 
have  soon  tired.  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever  met.  I  can 
never  be  more  to  you  than  I  am  now."  She  held  out 
her  hand.  He  looked  at  her  still  in  agonized  incompre- 
hension. She  met  his  eyes  with  sad,  immovable  firm- 
ness. Suddenly  divining  her  attitude,  a  sneer  escaped 
him.  The  next  instant  he  sprang  forward  and  caught 
her  to  him.  For  a  second,  as  his  lips  touched  hers, 
Constance  Herriott's  life  ceased  to  be.  Then,  with  the 
strength  of  a  man,  she  pushed  him  from  her. 

"Go,"  she  muttered,  hoarsely. 

"  God  forgive  you,"  he  whispered,  incoherently.  "  I 
shall  never  look  upon  your  face  again." 

He  turned  from  her.  A  moment  later  she  heard  the 
outer  door  close.  She  stood  with  bowed  head  under  the 
gaslight,  moveless  as  if  carven. 

"  I  hate  her,"  murmured  Eleanor,  watching  her  breath- 


79 


Suddenly,  in  the  intense  quiet,  down  through  the  halls 
there  floated  a  soft,  bird-like  voice  : 

"  Constance,"  it  called,  "  Constance  dear." 

From  the  still  figure  there  came  a  shuddering  moan. 
She  raised  her  head  as  if  regarding  something,  her  .lips 
moved  as  if  in  prayer. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  murmured,  "forgive  me.  I  forgot ; 
but  only  for  a  second — only  for  a  second,  mother." 

"  Constance,  Constance,"  called  the  voice. 

"  Yes,  Nan  ;  yes,  my  child  ;  Constance  is  coming." 

Up  the  stairs  she  moved  quickly. 

"  Were  you  frightened,  Nan  ?"  she  asked,  bending 
over  the  little  one. 

Nan  did  not  answer.  She  lay  in  a  listening  attitude 
for  a  moment — she  had  heard  something  besides  her  sis- 
ter's low  words.  And  the  little  hand  went  up  to  stroke 
the  cold,  white  cheek,  and  the  well-remembered  words 
were  softly  whispered,  in  great  trouble  as  in  small : 

"  Never  mind  ;  oh,  Constance,  never  mind." 

Five  minutes  later  a  white,  creeping  shadow  entered 
the  room  beyond. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  clouds  had  beat  themselves  empty.  The  next 
day  dawned  rainless  and  dull,  though  the  wind  still  blew 
stiffly. 

"  Eleanor  is  late  this  morning,"  said  Constance,  at  the 
breakfast-table. 

"She  came  into  our  room  before  we  were  up,  to  say 
she  had  a  headache  and  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed," 
said  Grace,  looking  curiously  at  Constance.  "  But  I  con- 
fess, Constance,"  she  exclaimed,  uncontrollably,  "  you 
look  fully  as  bad  as  she  did." 

"  I  did  not  sleep  well,"  replied  Constance,  turning  to 
pull  down  Edith's  jacket  as  the  latter  stood  drawing  on 
her  gloves,  ready  for  school.  She  had  known  that  the 
blue  shadows  about  her  weary  eyes  would  not  pass  un- 
remarked. Members  of  a  large  family  must  always  hold 
themselves  in  readiness  for  this  sort  of  inquisition. 

"  Put  on  your  overshoes,  Edith,"  she  said,  looking  the 
girl  over  carefully,  "and  ask  Miss  Temple  to  send  me  a 
report  of  your  progress  in  mathematics.  There  is  no 
necessity  for  me  to  call  just  now,  is  there  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Edith,  hastily  dismissing  the  subject, 
"  none  at  all.  What  is  this  queer  little  book  ?  I  found 
it  on  the  cabinet  in  the  drawing-room  this  morning." 

She  held  out  a  small  brown  note  -  book,  which  Con- 
stance instantly  recognized  as  the  one  from  which  Kenyon 
had  read. 


81 


"  It  is  Mr.  Kenyon's,"  she  returned,  taking  it  from  her 
and  placing  it  upon  the  table.  "  He  must  have  forgotten 
it,"  she  continued,  as  she  opened  an  egg  with  a  steady 
spoon.  "  I  shall  send  it  to  him  this  morning." 

"Wait  till  to-morrow,"  Grace  laughingly  advised. 
"  He  will  surely  be  around  for  it."  Constance  salted 
her  egg  and  said  nothing. 

After  breakfast  she  softly  tried  Eleanor's  door.  The 
key  was  turned,  and,  receiving  no  answer,  she  surmised 
that  she  slept,  and  went  away.  Twice  during  the  morn- 
ing she  repeated  the  attempt  with  the  same  result.  Tow- 
ard noon  she  became  alarmed,  and  decided  to  waken  her. 

"  Eleanor  !"  she  called,  shaking  the  door.  "  Eleanor, 
wake  up  !" 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  a  muffled  voice. 

"  It  is  almost  noon,  dear.     How  are  you?" 

"  Better." 

"  Won't  you  open  the  door  ?     I  want  to  see  you." 

"  Don't  bother,  please.  All  I  want  is  to  lie  still.  Do 
go  away." 

"  Open  the  door,  Eleanor.  You  speak  as  though  you 
were  ill.  Besides,  you  must  eat  something." 

"  Tell  Betty  to  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,  then." 

At  the  ungracious  words  Constance  turned  and  went 
down-stairs.  She  returned  soon  after  with  a  tempting 
salver,  and,  finding  the  door  unlocked,  went  in.  The 
tray  almost  slipped  from  her  hands  when  her  eyes  fell 
upon  her  sister's  face.  It  was  sallow  and  worn,  as  though 
she  had  been  through  great  suffering. 

"  I  shall  send  for  the  doctor,  Eleanor,"  she  said  with 
determination,  while  she  carefully  arranged  the  table  at 
the  side  of  the  bed.  "  You  look  wretched," 


82 


"  It  is  nothing  but  my  cold,"  replied  the  other,  shortly, 
without  looking  at  her.  "And  you  need  not  send  for 
the  doctor,  as  I  shall  not  see  him.  I'll  lock  the  door  if  I 
hear  him  coming.  I'll  drink  this  tea,  and  then  try  to 
sleep  again.  You  need  not  wait." 

"  Let  me  sit  beside  you.     I  promise  not  to  talk." 

"  You  annoy  me.     Please  go." 

She  had  not  glanced  at  her.  A  wondering  chill  over- 
spread Constance's  body.  Rebuffs  are  hard  when  one  is 
seeking  comfort.  She  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  bent 
to  kiss  her.  Eleanor  turned  her  face  away. 

"  You  might  catch  the  cold,"  she  murmured. 

Constance  straightened  herself.  "  You  are  very  cross 
this  morning,"  she  said,  half  tremulously,  half  play- 
fully. "Well,  I  shall  not  tease.  Eat  the  toast,  and 
perhaps  you  will  feel  more  amiable  after  you  have 
slept." 

She  got  Nan  ready  in  the  afternoon  to  take  her  to  the 
doctor's,  as  usual. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear  to  the  Ferris  dinner  to- 
night?" asked  Grace,  before  they  went.  Constance  started. 
Was  it  only  yesterday  that  Brunton  had  been  in  ?  The 
tragedy  of  one  moment  had  dimmed  what  had  immedi- 
ately preceded  it  with  the  distance  of  years. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied.  "  Tell  Betty  to  lay  out  my 
gray  crepe." 

They  had  been  gone  about  a  half  hour  when  Grace, 
who  was  seated  in  the  nursery  with  Marjorie  and  Betty, 
was  startled  at  the  sight  of  Eleanor  standing  in  the 
doorway  in  hat  and  jacket. 

"  Why,  Eleanor  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I'm  going  down  to   see  Mrs.  Vassault,"  returned  El- 


eanor,  in  a  low,  cool  voice.  "  She  has  not  been  very  well 
since  her  return." 

"But  with  your  cold!"  remonstrated  Grace,  utterly 
taken  aback.  "  It  is  very  unpleasant  out.  If  Con- 
stance were  home  she  would  forbid  your  stirring  from 
the  house." 

"  I  am  able  to  take  care  of  myself,"  was  the  cutting 
reply.  "  Good-bye."  She  walked  swiftly  over  to  where 
Marjorie  sat  on  the  floor  surrounded  by  toys,  and  gave 
her  a  close  but  hasty  kiss. 

"Take  me  with  you,"  begged  the  child,  throwing  her 
doll  aside  and  scrambling  to  her  feet. 

"  No,  no,  Marjorie ;  little  girls  don't  go  where  I  am 
going.  You  be  good,  and  play  house — with  Grace — and 
Constance." 

"  Constance  is  out,"  averred  Marjorie,  in  a  puzzled, 
resentful  voice. 

"  Oh,  she'll  come  back — she  always  does.  You  can 
always  count  on  Constance.  But  give  Eleanor  a  kiss. 
Good-bye,  sweetheart." 

The  next  minute  she  was  gone.  Marjorie  resumed  her 
doll  and  Grace  her  book. 

"  Miss  Eleanor  walks  like  the  wind,"  remarked  Betty, 
standing  by  the  window  with  her  sewing  in  her  hand. 
Grace  came  to  her  side,  and  watched  the  graceful  figure 
in  sealskin  jacket  and  simple  brown  dress  moving  fleetly 
up  the  street.  "  She's  here  and  gone,  and  you're  never 
sure  of  her.  When  you  think  you've  got  her  tearing  at 
your  back,  she's  laughing  in  your  face.  Well  I  mind 
me  of  the  day  your  blessed  mother  went,  when  Riley  and 
me — Riley  was  the  coachman,  my  dear  Miss  Grace — you 
kept  a  coachman  then,  along  with  other  good  things — 


84 


when  Riley  and  me  found  her  sitting  in  a  corner  with 
her  little  apron  over  her  head,  crying,  and  rocking  back- 
wards and  forwards  as  if  her  little  body  were  like  to 
burst  with  the  storm  inside  her,  like  a  balloon  that's 
blowed  too  high ;  and  then  of  a  sudden,  when  Riley 
downs  on  his  knees  before  her  and  begs  her  to  stop, 
saying,  « Don't,  now  —  don't,  little  lady,'  she  takes  her 
apron  down  from  her  head,  and  looks  at  him,  and  bursts 
out  laughing,  because,  'Oh,  Riley,'  she  cries,  'you've 
got  the  funniest  nose  I  ever  did  see  ;  it's  just  like  the  top 
of  a  crutch  !'  And  she  laughed  and  laughed,  and  Riley 
was  mighty  proud  to  think  he  had  such  a  handy  nose  as 
could  make  a  girl  laugh  when  she  was  nigh  to  dying  of 
sorrow.  And  I  says  to  him,  '  Riley,'  says  I, '  that  there 
hitch  in  your  nose  is  a  Godsend.'  And  I  suppose  every 
hitch  we  meet  is  put  there  a-purpose  to  bring  somebody 
up  short  on  the  road  they  shouldn't  be  taking." 

"  Eleanor  is  quick,"  said  Grace,  "  but  she's  all  right." 

"  Oh,  her  heart  is  in  the  right  spot,"  acquiesced  the 

old  nurse,  as  she  creased  a  hem.     "  But  sometimes  it's 

out  walking  when  it  should  be  in — just  as  she  is  doing 

now." 

Eleanor  walked  like  the  wind.  Turning  the  corner, 
she  kept  straight  ahead.  Under  her  veil  her  eyes  and 
mouth  looked  stern  and  repellent.  Had  she  been  com- 
manded to  divulge  her  destination  she  would  have  been 
compelled  to  reply,  like  the  weary  worldling  of  old, 
"  Anywhere — out  of  the  world."  She  longed  to  get  as 
far  from  the  reach  of  people  and  observation  as  she 
could.  Wretchedness  and  crime  are  alike  in  this — isola- 
tion is  their  desired  goal.  She  walked  westward,  regard- 
less of  the  space  of  time  and  ground  she  was  leaving 


85 


behind  her.  Only  to  get  away — to  get  away,  in  the  vain 
hope  of  getting  away  from  herself !  And  now  she  had 
passed  out  into  the  country.  Sandhills  and  trees,  nature 
unmolested  travelled  beside  her.  Still  on  she  went,  the 
trees  growing  more  frequent,  more  regular,  and  presently 
she  found  herself  near  the  entrance  to  Golden  Gate 
Park.  Three  hackmen  and  a  mounted  policeman  stood 
in  the  gateway.  They  arrested  her  attention.  The  fact 
of  the  distance  she  had  reached  assailed  her  grimly. 
"  I'll  go  to  the  end,"  she  thought,  and  she  turned  tow- 
ard the  beach  cars.  Five  minutes  later  the  salt  breeze 
struck  sharply  into  her  face — she  was  steaming  along  to 
the  ocean.  On  sped  the  cars ;  past  trackless  stretches 
of  sand-dunes,  swept  smooth  and  white  as  the  hand  by 
the  winds  of  yesterday,  the  young  pines  and  eucalypti 
rising  along  their  embankments  in  stripling  slenderness. 
And  ever  the  salt  breeze  lashed  her  face  and  stung  her 
eyes,  and  the  whistling  steam  harked  eeriely  back  to  her 
as  she  sat  alone  in  the  open  tram.  She  alighted  with  a 
sense  of  freedom.  She  walked  quickly  down  the  rocky 
road,  and  at  last — at  last  she  had  reached  the  sands  of 
the  ocean.  How  it  boomed  ! 

She  stood  alone.  The  Cliff  House  rose  at  her  right, 
silent  and  bleak ;  to  her  left,  along  the  sinuous  sweep 
of  sand,  not  a  living  thing  was  in  sight ;  before  her  was 
the  dim,  misty  stretch  of  limitless  ocean.  Now  and  then 
the  hawking  of  the  seals  from  their  distant  rocks  reached 
her  dimly  through  the  thunderous  clamor  of  waters. 
The  slow,  heavy  billows  swelled  toward  her,  seething 
far  above  her  head,  and  as  they  broke  madly  at  her  feet, 
curled  backward,  hissing  like  angry  serpents  which  were 
swallowed  like  froth  in  the  cavernous  depths  of  the  mon- 


86 


ster  breakers  foaming  to  the  shore.  Roar  and  boom  and 
swish,  as  the  boiling  waves  dashed  themselves  in  con- 
tinuous fury  against  the  cliffs  and  rocks  toward  the 
north.  And  presently  she  forgot  the  noise  ;  its  wild  di- 
apason no  longer  had  meaning  for  her.  Only  before  her, 
as  far  as  eye  could  travel,  north,  west,  south,  spread  the 
great  ocean,  meeting  the  gray  horizon  in  a  line  of  silver. 

As  she  looked  the  fever  left  her ;  the  stern,  repellent 
look  in  her  eyes  changed  to  one  of  weary  sadness.  "  Oh," 
she  thought,  "to  be  free  like  that,  to  expand  like  that, 
and  still  be  sentient.  To  float  into  an  infinity  without 
limitation,  without  end,  free  from  fret  and  care,  rid  of 
humanity  !  To  comprehend  and  to  be  uncomprehended, 
a  soul,  a  spirit,  asking  nothing — for  nothing  should  be 
wanted.  To  know  no  longing  1"  Unconsciously  her  feet 
moved  to  the  tide.  It  drew  her  like  a  magnet;  she 
moved  as  if  asleep,  her  eyes  on  the  line  of  silver.  Al- 
most, and  Eleanor  Herriott  would  have  passed  out.  Some- 
thing crossed  her  line  of  vision  —  the  dark  figure  of  a 
man  moving  along  the  sands.  She  knew  him  on  the  in- 
stant. It  was  Kenyon. 

"  No,  no,"  she  murmured,  shrinking  back  in  wild  re- 
vulsion. "  Not  while  he  lives  !" 

She  stood  still,  out  of  the  reach  of  the  waves,  and 
looked  with  a  pale,  wondering  face  upon  him.  He  was 
not  three  yards  from  her.  He  stood  looking  out,  a  tall, 
strong  figure  with  folded  arms.  What  was  he  doing 
here  on  this  dark,  blustering  day  ?  Why  had  he  come  ? 
The  question  was  confronted  by  another :  why  had  she 
come  ?  Her  heart  gave  a  wild  bound.  She  felt  herself 
growing  intent  and  still.  The  next  minute  she  had  ap- 
proached to  within  a  foot.  She  looked  at  him  with 


87 


quick  comprehension,  yet  never  had  she  seen  such 
change  wrought  upon  the  human  countenance  in  the 
space  of  a  night.  He  was  quite  ghastly  —  with  the 
ghastliness  of  cold  ashes  where  a  glowing  fire  had  been 
alight.  His  eyes  were  dark  as  dead  embers,  the  corners 
of  his  nose  pinched  and  drawn,  his  lips  close -pressed 
and  dry,  his  chin  looked  hard  and  resolute  as  a  bulwark. 
There  was  not  the  shadow  of  an  emotion  upon  him,  only 
the  cold,  indelible  imprint  of  a  great  tragedy. 

She  had  known  he  would  take  it  hard  ;  they  were  too 
much  akin  for  her  to  delude  herself  with  a  contrary  be- 
lief. She  had  known  he  would  revolt  as  only  those  who 
have  never  been  denied  anything  will  revolt  when  a 
great  demand  is  ignored ;  but  she  was  not  prepared  for 
the  devastation  of  all  hope  upon  his  beaten  face. 

He  was  quite  unconscious  of  her  proximity ;  not  a 
sound,  not  a  movement  escaped  him.  She  longed  yet 
feared  to  have  him  make  some  sign  of  consciousness. 
She  was  startled  when  the  sign  came — the  cold,  deadly 
sneer  which  drew  out  lips  and  nostrils  was  an  agonizing 
sight.  Presently,  as  she  before  had  glided  down  the 
sand,  he  moved  toward  the  waters  with  apparent,  de- 
liberate purpose,  in  the  momentary  bravery  of  reckless 
cowardice. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon  !     Hall !     Hall !" 

The  sharp,  clear  call,  the  sudden  grasp  upon  his  arm 
were  an  unforeseen  shock  in  his  disordered  mentality. 
He  paused  abruptly,  turned  toward  her,  and  reeled. 
Her  arms  went  about  his  shoulders.  He  leaned  uncon- 
sciously against  her  in  vertigo.  The  blood  rushed  in  a 
torrent  to  his  brain  and  receded  as  rapidly. 

"Come,"  she  said,  her  voice  rising  like  a  command 


above  the  deep  roar  of  the  sea — "  come  away  from  the 
waves !" 

At  her  voice  a  flutter  of  consciousness  sprang  to  his 
face ;  he  moved  mechanically  with  her. 

"You — "  He  faltered  as  she  paused  breathless  under 
his  weight.  "  Why  did  you  come  ?"  A  painful,  miser- 
able hope  had  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

« I — I  Was  here,"  was  the  simple  answer. 

Revulsion  overtook  him  at  once.  His  eyes  closed,  he 
swayed  against  her.  A  man  on  the  upper  balcony  of 
the  Cliff  House,  sweeping  the  horizon  with  a  field-glass, 
suddenly  perceived  them  and  let  his  gaze  rest. 

"  Two  lovers,"  he  conjectured,  with  a  half  -  smile, 
"  having  it  out — with  the  breakers.  The  woman  seems 
to  be  supporting  him,  though !  Perhaps  he  is  ill  ! 
Tempted  by  the  waves — "  He  made  a  hasty  movement 
as  if  ready  to  go  to  her  assistance,  but  paused  and  con- 
tinued to  observe  them  with  interest.  "  They  are  mov- 
ing away,"  he  commented  to  himself.  "  They  look  like 
aristocrats,  too.  A  queer  situation !  But  then  one  can 
never  be  sure  of  a  woman." 

Her  skirt  trailed  along  the  sand  as  she  led  him  on. 
He  was  giddy — in  an  unconscious  whirl;  the  vertigo 
had  left  him  weak  and  helpless.  Eleanor  Herriott's  face 
was  calm  and  steadfast.  She  was  called  upon  to  help 
him,  and  her  soul  could  hold  no  further  thought. 

They  made  headway  toward  a  cab  near  the  house, 
the  driver  of  which  had  just  emerged  from  the  bar-room 
wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  The  sun 
was  lowering  to  the  ocean,  a  huge,  blood-red  ball,  sur- 
rounded by  black,  volcanic  clouds. 

The  man  touched  his  hat  as  the  girl  accosted  him. 


89 


"  Will  you  drive  us  to  the  Sausalito  ferry  at  once  ?" 
she  asked. 

The  hackman  looked  from  the  calm-faced  girl  to  the 
handsome,  death-like  face  above  her. 

"  Yes'm,"  he  said,  with  alacrity.    "  Gent  sick  ?" 

He  received  no  answer,  and  he  lent  an  assisting  hand 
to  Kenyon. 

As  he  closed  the  door  upon  them  the  sun's  ball  of 
blood  sank  to  the  waters,  staining  them  with  crimson, 
flushing  cliff  and  house  and  sands  in  rosy  incandescence, 
and  lighting  the  heavens  with  marvellous  splendor.  But 
the  human  actors  were  no  longer  in  sight. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

" GOOD  -NIGHT,  dearies,"  Constance  was  saying  that 
same  evening.  She  was  standing  in  the  dining-room 
doorway,  and  smiling  upon  the  little  group  about  the 
table.  "  Don't  forget  anything  I  have  told  you.  Nan 
and  Marjorie  may  stay  up  till  half-past  eight,  and — " 

"  Say  till  nine,  Constance,"  broke  in  Nan,  eagerly, 
laying  down  her  fork.  "  We  are  going  to  pop  corn  and 
tell  stories.  Half-past  eight  would  be  just  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fun." 

"  No,  Nan,  I  have  given  you  a  half-hour  longer  than 
usual ;  you  must  be  satisfied.  Otherwise  you  would  be 
worn  out  to-morrow,  and  Marjorie  would  be  cross  all 
day." 

"  Oh  no,  we  wouldn't !  Truly  we  wouldn't !"  chimed 
in  the  two  childish  voices,  half  in  promise,  half  in  en- 
treaty. 

"  There,  there,  I  said  half-past  eight.  And  you  must 
see,  Grace,  that  they  are  both  in  bed  at  just  that  time." 

Brunton,  leaning  against  the  sideboard,  looked  quiz- 
zically from  the  disappointed  little  faces  to  that  of  their 
guardian  in  the  doorway.  She  was  ready  to  go ;  upon 
her  head  and  crossed  under  her  chin  was  a  black  lace 
scarf,  from  the  filmy  shadow  of  which  her  face  looked 
out  in  calm  austerity. 

"  Why  so  —  impregnable?"  he  ventured,  in  an  under- 
tone. 


91 


A  quick  contraction  fluttered  her  nostrils.  "  It  is  nec- 
essary," she  answered  sharply,  moving  to  leave.  She 
turned  back,  after  making  a  step. 

"  Girls,"  she  said,  "  tell  Eleanor  when  she  comes 
home  that  I  brought  her  a  volume  of  short  stories  from 
the  library ;  they  are  on  her  table.  Tell  her  that  I  said 
that  they  are  very  clever  and  amusing.  And,  Betty,"  she 
added  to  the  maid  hovering  over  the  children,  "  see  that 
Miss  Eleanor  has  a  good  hot  drink  when  she  goes  to 
bed.  I  am  sorry  Mrs.  Yassault  kept  her  for  dinner. 
Good-night  all,  again." 

"  You  see,  Eleanor  went  out  this  afternoon  when  I  had 
gone  off  with  Nan,"  she  explained,  as  Brunton  stepped 
into  the  carriage  after  her  and  the  horses  started  off 
briskly.  "  I  am  afraid  her  cold  will  take  a  relapse.  The 
air  is  anything  but  dry." 

"Taking  a  homoeopathic  cure,"  suggested  Brunton, 
easily,  leaning  back  in  the  opposite  corner.  "  Eleanor 
is  a  fantastic  creature,  but  her  little  lapses  are  pardonable 
on  the  plea  of  being  committed  without  premeditation. 
She  reminds  me  of  Kenyon.  You  remember  Kenyon, 
the  writer  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  of  course  !  He  has  developed  into  quite  a  house- 
friend,  hasn't  he  3" 

"  We  have  seen  him  very  often  during  his  stay." 

Brunton  looked  at  her  curiously.  Was  it  merely  the 
jolting  over  the  uneven  street  which  caused  her  quick, 
short  tone  ? 

"  A  most  unaccountable  fellow — Kenyon.  Makes  an 
appointment — rushes  in  on  the  tag  end  of  it,  or  forgets 
it  entirely  in  the  overwhelming  absorption  of  other  in- 


92 


terests.  But  he  invariably  remembers  soon  enough  to 
bring  a  breathless  apology  which  knocks  out  the  rating 
I  have  in  preparation.  It  is  impossible  to  do  more  than 
swear  in  the  face  of  his  contrition.  His  personality  is 
magical." 

"Do  you  ever  swear,  Geoffrey?"  she  asked,  lightly, 
curving  the  subject  adroitly. 

"  In  my  better  moments.  For  instance,  when  I  waited 
a  half-hour  for  Kenyon  to-day  to  come  in  and  sign  a 
deed ;  it  should  have  been  mailed  this  evening.  lie 
never  made  even  the  ghost  of  an  appearance.  There  is 
no  excuse,  as  he  was  in  yesterday,  and  in  a  fever-heat 
to  have  it  consummated." 

"  You  men  always  forget  to  be  human  when  your 
interests  are  retarded.  Do  you  ever  remember  that 
illness  or  accident  might  prove  a  possible  hinder- 
ance  ?" 

"  Seldom,  when  dealing  with  a  man ;  never,  with  one 
put  up  as  Kenyon  is.  Now,  if  I  had  made  the  engage- 
ment with  you  for  to-morrow  and  you  should  not  mate- 
rialize, I  should  hold  those  dark  rings  about  your  eyes 
to  account.  Where  did  you  get  them  ?" 

"  In  a  mental  prize-fight.  Don't  laugh  at  them  ;  they 
are  sometimes  inseparable  parts  of  the  spoils.  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  a  pleasant  evening." 

"  Indeed  !"  he  responded,  closing  his  hand  tightly  as  it 
rested  upon  his  knee.  He  was  barred  out ;  he  was  turned 
from  the  door  of  her  confidence  in  a  manner  curiously 
unlike  herself. 

This  was  the  first  invitation  he  had  ever  accepted  from 
Mrs.  Ferris.  He  did  not  like  the  woman,  but  he  held  a 
genuine  admiration  for  her  daughter,  which  no  amount 


93 


of  maternal  propagation  could  stifle.  Looking  at  Ger- 
trude Ferris  next  her  mother,  it  had  always  remained  a 
wonder  that  the  girl  had  continued  unspoiled.  She  was 
gentle,  refined,  and  full  of  that  sweet  charity  which  is  the 
root  of  as  many  feminine  omissions  as  commissions.  Her 
mother's  small,  sharp  eyes  were  like  so  many  antennae,  to 
which  no  social  morsel  was  too  microscopic  to  be  un- 
worthy her  interest  and  publication.  And  yet  he  had  to 
admit  that  Mrs.  Ferris  understood  the  art  of  entertaining 
to  a  fine  degree.  Her  dishes,  decorations,  service,  and 
guests  were  chosen  with  a  refinement  of  knowledge  which 
showed  great  study,  sharp  adaptive  powers.  She  told  off 
her  guests  with  a  nicety  of  discrimination  which  proved 
her  something  of  a  diplomat.  Brunton  felt  a  complai- 
sant pleasure  in  the  fact  that  Miss  Ferris  fell  to  his  lot. 
Had  she  been  a  mere  pretty  girl  whose  best  points  were 
her  facial  features,  she  would,  of  a  certainty,  have  been 
placed  opposite  him  in  the  light  of  an  attractive  picture, 
instead  of  next  him  in  the  position  of  an  entertaining 
companion.  Constance,  he  remarked,  was  neither  within 
sight  nor  hearing.  She  had  been  apportioned  to  Garth, 
the  young  portrait-painter  who  had  done  Mrs.  Ferris's 
head  with  the  accuracy  of  truth  and  all  the  art  which 
discovers  extenuating  possibilities  of  beauty  in  the  plain- 
est subject — the  refutation  of  the  libel  that  portrait-paint- 
ers are  independent  of  fancy. 

Young  Garth  had  been  standing  near  his  hostess  when 
Constance  entered.  His  eye  had  been  held  on  the  in- 
stant by  the  odd  contrast  of  her  pale  olive  complexion 
and  the  pale  gold  of  her  hair.  Upon  being  introduced  he 
had  addressed  some  remark  to  her  which  arrested  her. 
They  had  drawn  somewhat  aside.  It  happened  that  Con- 


94 


stance,  standing  talking  to  him  until  they  went  in,  paid 
no  attention  to  the  other  guests. 

But  as  they  seated  themselves  at  table  Constance  gave 
a  start ;  for  there  sat  Mrs.  Vassault,  radiant  and  lovely — 
Mrs.  Vassault,  Eleanor's  friend,  opposite,  in  lively  con- 
verse with  her  escort !  And  the  next  instant  she  found 
herself  nodding  to  Mr.  Vassault,  a  few  seats  farther  on. 
She  looked  at  the  wife  and  the  husband  in  dismay :  if 
they  were  here,  where  was  Eleanor  ? 

She  felt  her  heart  beating  anxiously.  She  tried  to  com- 
pose herself  with  the  thought  that  Eleanor  had  waited  to 
be  driven  home  in  the  Vassaults'  carriage  on  their  way 
to  the  Ferrjses'.  She  succeeded  in  lending  an  attentive 
ear  to  Garth,  who,  being  a  voluble  talker,  found  himself 
as  much  at  ease  in  addressing  this  statuesquely  beautiful 
woman  as  if  she  had  been  a  model  whom  he  was  warm- 
ing to  the  desired  expression.  But  she  listened  as  idly 
to  his  conversation  as  to  the  music.  Yet  Garth  found 
her  extremely  entertaining,  his  monology  requiring  only 
a  good  listener  who  showed  no  sign  of  weariness. 

She  had  to  wait.  But  at  length  the  ladies  had  filed 
into  the  drawing-room  again.  Quickly  Constance  ap- 
proached Mrs.  Vassault. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  began,  with  a  half-smile,  "  did  you  not 
find  Eleanor  looking  rather  miserable  to-day  ?" 

"Eleanor!"  repeated  Mrs.  Vassault,  raising  her  eye- 
brows and  fan  at  the  same  time,  and  wafting  a  breath  of 
violets  as  she  spoke.  "  I  did  not  see  Eleanor  to-day  !  I 
believe  that  fickle  girl  is  beginning  to  abandon  me !  I 
have  seen  so  little  of  her  since  our  return." 

"  Ah,"  returned  Constance,  feeling  her  limbs  suddenly 
grow  heavy  and  cold  beneath  her.  "  I  thought  she  said 


95 


she  was  going  to  visit  you  this  afternoon.  I  must  have 
misunderstood  her." 

There  was  some  mistake  —  some  accident  or  trouble. 
She  must  see  Geoffrey  at  once.  She  glanced  around ; 
he  was  not  in  sight.  And  now  she  felt  herself  grow- 
ing white  and  excited.  Ah  !  there  was  Geoffrey,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  long  room.  She  would  go  to  him 
and  tell  him  her  anxiety.  With  a  murmured  word  of 
apology  to  her  companion,  she  turned  into  the  near  con- 
servatory. 

The  perfumed  air  enveloped  her  languorously  as  she 
moved  over  the  floor.  She  had  almost  reached  the  door 
when  it  was  flung  open,  and  Charlie  Ferris  stepped  in. 
He  was  a  young,  bright-looking  lad  of  seventeen,  clad  in 
an  old  shooting-jacket  and  spattered  leather  breeches. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Herriott !"  he  exclaimed  with  a  laugh,  as  he 
started  back.  "  Don't  look  at  me,  please  !  Just  stole  in 
— to  get  a  package  of  cigarettes  I  left  here  this  morning. 
Been  shooting  over  at  Mill  Valley ;  bagged  some  great 
birds.  Oh,  I  say,  I  saw  your  sister." 

"  My  sister !" 

The  palms,  the  flowers,  the  boy,  the  music  from  the 
next  room,  danced  fantastically  about  her. 

"  Yes,  the  pretty  one ;  had  on  a  seal-skin  jacket ;  saw 
her  walking  up  toward  the  heights  at  Sausalito  with 
Kenyon,  that  handsome  fellow  who  writes.  I  met  him 
at  my  brother's  club  one  night — " 

"  When  did  you  say  you  saw  her  ?"  came  the  low  words, 
accompanied  by  a  strained  smile.  She  had  suddenly  be- 
come conscious  of  a  heliotrope  gown  near  the  dividing 
portiere.  She  recognized  it  at  once  as  Mrs.  Ferris's ;  it 
stood  intently  still.  The  wearer  was  listening. 


96 


"  Let's  see,"  calculated  the  boy,  "  it  must  have  been 
about  5.40,  because  I  was  hurrying  toward  the  station 
to  take  the  5.45  boat  home." 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance,  slowly — was  she  talking  to  the 
heliotrope  gown  or  to  the  boy  ? — "  perhaps  it  was  about 
that  time.  I  suppose  she  took  the  next  boat  home." 

"  Couldn't  do  that,"  exclaimed  Charlie  Ferris,  with  a 
grin.  "  I  took  the  last  boat  over  myself.  There's  no 
boat  after  the  5.45." 

He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  regarded 
her  like  a  young  mastiff  of  superior  wisdom.  In  his 
careless,  boyish  face  there  was  no  trace  of  the  hideous 
thought  which  assailed  the  woman  standing  stonily  be- 
fore him.  Finally  a  peculiar  little  laugh  escaped  her. 
The  gown  was  waiting  for  some  further  comment. 

"  I  am  so  forgetful,"  she  explained,  carefully,  as  she 
regarded  the  boy.  "  Of  course.  She  thought  of  pass- 
ing the  night  with  May  Turnbull ;  the  Turnbulls  are  liv- 
ing over  there  now,  you  know.  How  foolish  of  me  to 
forget !"  There  are  moments  of  confused  agony  when 
the  bravest  will  seek  to  escape  in  the  shadow  of  a  subter- 
fuge. 

"  Yes,  I  know  Tom  Turnbull,"  nodded  Charlie,  pick- 
ing tip  his  cigarettes  from  a  small  rustic  stand.  "  Don't 
give  me  away,  Miss  Herriott !"  And  with  this  cavalier 
adieu  he  disappeared.  The  purple  gown  moved  away. 

Constance  stood  alone.  What  did  it  mean  ?  She  put 
her  hand  to  her  head  as  if  to  brush  aside  the  cloud  of 
blood  which  blinded  her.  Geoffrey  !  That  was  it — she 
was  going  to  call  Geoffrey.  She  took  a  step  forward. 
No,  not  Geoffrey  now.  There  was  no  one — no  one  in 
all  the  world — to  help  her.  There  must  be  no  gossip. 


97 


Eleanor  Herriott  was  her  sister — hers,  and  the  sister  of 
those  four  girls  at  home.  She  belonged  to  no  one  else  ; 
hers — her  mother's  child. 

"  Ah,  Constance,  what  are  you  doing  here  alone  ?" 

The  blood  rushed  madly  over  her  brow  as  she  faced 
Brunton. 

"  I  saw  you  leave  the  drawing-room  hurriedly,"  he 
said,  approaching  her  with  quiet  concern.  "  Is  anything 
wrong  ?" 

"  Wrong  !"  she  repeated,  with  such  exaggerated  vehe- 
mence that  he  drew  back.  "  What  could  possibly  be 
wrong  ?  I — " 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Herriott,"  interrupted  Gertrude 
Ferris's  voice,  as  she  stood,  somewhat  flushed,  near  the 
portiere,  "  but  mamma  sent  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would 
please  play  something  for  us." 

"Certainly,"  asserted  Constance,  moving  swiftly  to 
her.  "  I  shall  be  pleased  to  play  for  you,  Gertrude." 

There  was  something  like  entreaty  in  the  smile  she 
gave  to  the  girl.  Gertrude,  who  had  an  almost  idola- 
trous admiration  for  Constance  Herriott,  touched  her 
arm  timidly.  Constance  involuntarily  shuddered.  Ger- 
trude drew  back,  blushing  violently. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Constance,  with  an  indrawn  sigh. 
"  I  believe  I  am  slightly  nervous  to-night." 

"  Then  do  not  play,"  begged  Miss  Ferris,  hurriedly. 
"  I'll  sing,  if  you  would  rather  stay  here." 

But  Constance  stepped  into  the  drawing-room.  As 
she  seated  herself  at  the  piano  her  hands  felt  like  insen- 
sate lumps  of  ice.  But  she  must  play.  Everybody  was 
looking  at  her,  and  nobody  must  know.  She  felt  as 
though  it  could  be  read  all  over  her  figure — her  back, 


her  hair,  upon  her  white  neck.  She  must  play  to  hide 
it,  play  to  show  that  nothing  was  wrong.  Like  a  crimi- 
nal on  the  verge  of  being  discovered,  she  gathered  her 
wits  in  one  supreme  effort.  She  played  a  quaint  ma- 
zurka. Her  fingers  moved  like  excellently  drilled  wax- 
works. How  the  notes  tripped,  tripped — mocking,  jest- 
ing, happy-sad  notes  tripping  'over  a  grave  !  Only  one 
among  all  her  auditors  knew  that  the  stately,  calm-faced 
girl  was  in  a  delirium  of  suffering.  Brunton,  standing 
in  the  doorway  like  a  sentinel,  regarded  her  with  the  as- 
sured conviction  that  she  would  suddenly  break  down  ; 
only  some  great  physical  or  mental  pain  could  have  made 
her  act  as  hysterically  as  she  had  acted  a  moment  before 
in  the  conservatory.  He  was  on  the  alert  to  give  his 
assistance.  It  was  not  needed. 

From  then  till  the  moment  when  he  unlocked  her 
door  for  her  she  appeared  quite  self-possessed. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?"  he  asked,  as  she 
stepped  over  the  threshold. 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  have  everything  I  wish." 

"  Then  good-night ;  sleep  well." 

"  Good-night,  Geoffrey." 

She  closed  the  heavy  door  softly  behind  him.  Then, 
with  a  wild  movement,  she  rushed  up-stairs  into  Elea- 
nor's room,  over  to  the  bed,  feeling  convulsively  for  the 
young  form  she  loved  so  well.  Nothing. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat ;  her  heart  was  stran- 
gling her.  "  Eleanor  !"  she  called.  No  answer.  She  lit 
a  match  and  groped  about  the  room — perhaps  there  was 
a  note.  She  lit  the  gas.  Nothing.  She  must  search 
the  house.  From  room  to  room  the  still,  misty  gray 
figure  passed,  making  no  sound,  no  outcry,  no  call  for 


99 


help.     And  at  last  she  stood  again  in  Eleanor's  room 
with  empty  hands. 

She  was  utterly  bewildered.  In  the  irresistible  rush 
of  opposing  thoughts  her  mind  wandered  strangely. 
Kenyon !  The  man  of  whom,  for  months,  she  had 
thought  but  as  of  something  beautiful  and  strong — 
something  purer  and  more  wholesome  than  any  per- 
sonality which  had  ever  touched  hers  outside  of  child- 
hood and  adolescence  !  Quick,  passionate,  dauntless,  she 
knew  him  to  be  ;  stubborn  and  selfish,  perhaps,  but  not — 
vile  !  And  if  he  were  vile,  what  was  Eleanor  ?  What 
was  her  sister  ?  The  shame  and  wretchedness  of  the 
question  were  pitiable. 

It  was  significant  of  the  horror  of  the  situation  that 
she  gave  no  tender  thought  to  Eleanor.  One  supreme 
question  rang  eternally  in  her  brain :  What  would  peo- 
ple say  ?  What  would  people  say  ?  Always,  always — 
came  the  answer — at  the  sound  of  the  name  of  Herriott, 
that  the  sister  of  those  innocent  young  girls  was —  No, 
no !  It  was  too  awful,  too  pitiless.  It  must  not  be — 
God  help  her,  it  should  not  be ! 

The  demoniacal  shapes  filed  slowly  out  of  her  mental 
portal.  She  felt  herself  gaining  a  peculiar,  moveless 
power.  Emotion,  weakness,  femininity,  fell  from  her. 
She  grew  cold,  hard,  relentless  as  a  commandant  before 
a  deadly  enemy.  Something  was  to  be  done,  and  she 
must  do  it.  There  was  no  man,  no  father,  no  brother  to 
turn  to  in  this  sickening  crisis.  It  was  man's  work,  but 
there  was  no  one  but  herself — no  one  but  Constance 
Herriott ;  and  the  father,  the  brother,  was  at  hand. 

She  stood  wrapped  in  a  hood  of  strong  thought.  Fi- 
nally she  turned  and  walked  down-stairs.  Her  step  was 


100 


deliberate,  sure,  masterful.  The  woman  in  her  was  rout- 
ed ;  she  strode  like  a  man.  She  lit  the  gas  in  the  library  ; 
she  found  a  newspaper.  With  strong,  nerveless  fingers 
she  turned  it  till  she  came  to  the  railroad  guide.  The 
first  ferry  left  San  Francisco  for  Sausalito  at  7.30  in  the 
morning.  The  first  ferry  from  Sausalito  arrived  five 
minutes  before ;  she  would  be  in  time,  if  they  had  not 
gone  farther  north.  She  looked  at  the  clock  ;  it  was  half- 
past  two.  There  were  four  hours  to  wait. 

She  mounted  the  stairs  and  entered  her  own  room. 
She  did  not  glance  toward,  did  not  see,  the  child  Marjo- 
rie  sleeping  in  the  bed.  She  began  to  take  off  her  gown. 
She  replaced  it  with  a  plain,  dark,  tailor-made  garment, 
whose  severity  but  augmented  the  severe  aspect  of  her 
bearing. 

"  There  is  only  one  way,"  she  thought,  as  she  pinned 
on  her  hat.  "  I  must  go  to  them.  People  must  never 
know.  Only  one  way  " — her  eye,  travelling  toward  the 
open  bureau  drawer,  encountered  a  small  derringer,  which 
always  lay  there  hidden — "  or,"  came  the  cold,  emotion- 
less thought,  "  perhaps  two." 

Then,  taking  from  the  closet  a  dark,  straight  ulster, 
she  sat  down  and  waited. 


CHAPTER   IX 

"  You  want  him  tea  velly  stlong  ?"  asked  Wong,  stand- 
ing, caddy  in  hand,  and  looking  with  an  odd  expression 
upon  Eleanor  Herriott.  Eleanor  stood  near  Wong  in 
the  tiny  kitchen. 

"  Yes,  please.  And  if  you  will  arrange  the  tray,  I  shall 
take  it  right  in." 

"  Misser  Ken  velly  sick  man  ?"  asked  the  Chinaman,  his 
slender  yellow  hand  deftly  spreading  the  small  tray  with 
a  white  cloth. 

"  He  is  better  now." 

The  slanting  brown  eyes  regarded  her  with  the  cool, 
intrepid,  Mongolian  stare  as  he  placed  the  tray  in  her 
hands.  She  did  not  notice  it.  There  was  a  serenity, 
an  indescribable  lack  of  self  -  consciousness  upon  her 
face  such  as  one  sees  upon  the  clear,  chaste  counte- 
nances of  some  nuns.  She  passed  quietly  out  with  the 
steaming  tea,  Wong  following  her;  but  he  went  on  to 
his  broom  on  the  porch. 

She  entered  the  sitting-room.  Kenyon  still  reposed  in 
a  partly  reclining  attitude  upon  the  lounge,  where  he  had 
half-fallen,  half-thrown  himself  the  night  before — after 
that  scene  upon  the  beach  at  sunset.  His  elbow  was 
sunk  in  the  soft  cushion  which  Eleanor  had  managed  to 
place  under  his  head.  His  face  looked  gray  and  thought- 
ful. He  received  the  tray  from  her  hands  without  a  word 
of  protesting  thanks.  While  he  idly  stirred  the  spoon, 
his  wandering  gaze  travelled  from  her  hat  and  jacket 


102 


j>i\*a.etiair*to;th£  sl>m,  graceful  form  beside  him.  A 
'  pi&aleet  I<x)fe»gat1lfcrred*  in  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  asked,  gently,  "  how  I  happen 
to  be  lying  here  ?" 

"  You  were  ill,"  she  replied.  "  I  brought  you  here. 
When  we  came  in  you  sank  down  there.  At  first  you 
were  in  a  sort  of  stupor ;  then  your  breathing  changed. 
You  slept  all  night." 

He  listened  attentively,  swallowing  the  while  a  little 
of  the  hot  tea.  When  he  replaced  the  cup  in  the  saucer 
he  shot  a  quick  look  of  consternation  at  her.  She  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  head  of  the  couch  watching  him 
with  simple  solicitude.  He  raised  his  cup  again  to  his 
lips  without  a  word. 

They  remained  thus  in  silence  until  they  heard 
Wong's  voice  suddenly  raised  in  colloquy  upon  the 
porch.  There  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  hall.  A 
hovering,  dark  shadow  appeared  in  the  doorway.  The 
next  minute  Constance  stood  before  them. 

The  cup  and  saucer  fell  with  a  crash  as  Kenyon  rose 
to  his  feet  and  confronted  her.  His  face  and  lips  were 
deathly.  Eleanor  had  drawn  back  in  surprise.  Con- 
stance's face  was  covered  with  a  still,  mask-like  compos- 
ure. It  was  not  a  pleasant  expression. 

"Are  you  two  married?"  she  asked,  in  a  hard  voice, 
meeting  Kenyon's  eyes. 

A  stifled  cry  came  from  Eleanor.  The  sudden  flood 
of  consciousness  the  words  bore  to  her  was  brutal. 

Kenyon's  unswerving  gaze  did  not  turn  to  the  girl,  nor 
did  Constance's ;  they  regarded  each  other  dumbly. 

"  I  asked  if  you  two  are  married  ?"  she  repeated,  in 
deliberate,  heavy  precision. 


103 


"  We  are  not,"  returned  Kenyon,  in  an  unnatural  tone. 

"  How  dare  you,  Constance  !"  The  cry  came  from 
Eleanor,  as  she  sprang  forward  with  burning  eyes  and 
cheeks,  and  hand  upraised  as  if  to  strike.  Constance 
turned  easily  toward  her. 

"  You  are  not  responsible  for  your  inspirations,"  she 
said,  "  but  you  had  better  put  down  your  hand.  I  have 
come  to  see  that  Mr.  Kenyon  repairs  the  wrong  he  has 
done  you.  Please  stand  back." 

"  What  wrong  ?"  demanded  the  younger  sister  tersely. 
"  What  wrong  are  you  insinuating,  pray  ?" 

Constance  heard  her  without  a  change  of  expression. 
She  looked  again  toward  Kenyon. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon,  you  must  marry  my  sister  to-day — be- 
fore you  leave  this  house." 

"  Marry  Miss  Eleanor  ?  Your  demand  is  hasty,"  he 
replied,  with  a  laugh.  "  Had  we  not  better  control 
tragics  ?  Why  should  I  marry  Miss  Eleanor — now — at 
any  time — I  beg  ?" 

"  I  had  not  thought  you  a  scoundrel,"  she  returned. 
"  But  in  any  case — " 

"  In  any  case  you  would  marry  your  sister  to  the 
scoundrel."  His  teeth  were  set  now.  He  understood. 
He  would  offer  no  recriminations  to  her. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon,  listen  to  me.  A  woman  has  only  her 
good  name.  She  may  be  forced  to  maintain  it  at  the 
price  of  her  happiness.  If  you  have  one  spark  of  man- 
liness left  you  will  make  right  in  the  world's  eyes  what 
has  passed  since  yesterday  by  making  my  sister  your 
wife."  Her  figure  seemed  to  tower  over  the  quivering 
younger  girl.  Her  face  was  as  relentless  as  that  of  an 
Atropos.  "  I  can  trust  you  to  do  this,  as  the  friend  of 


104 


my  cousin,  Severn  Scott."  She  chose  her  words  care- 
fully. Kenyon  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  his  nostrils 
quivering  with  repression.  Constance,  mistaking  the 
movement,  drew  nearer,  regarding  him  with  stern  mean- 
ing. 

"  There  is  one  way  out  of  it,"  she  added  ;  "  but  it  is 
a  more  melodramatic  and  disagreeable  one." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  need  for  violence,"  he  returned,  un- 
derstanding her.  "  If  you  stop  to  consider,  shooting 
would  only  aggravate  scandal.  And  really  I  am  ready 
to  make  all  amends  for  au  unforeseen  adventure — since 
you  are  so  insistent." 

"  But  I — I — "     Eleanor's  voice  came  sharply. 

"  Miss  Eleanor,  it  is  better  so,"  interrupted  Kenyon, 
with  sudden  sternness.  "  Your  sister  is  right.  She  has 
a  cooler  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  world  than  we.  Let 
us  submit.  I  promise  that  it  will  be  better — for  you." 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  send  your  servant  for  Dr.  Gran- 
niss  ?"  broke  in  Constance's  calm  voice. 

"  Certainly.  My  house  and  all  in  it  are  at  your  dis- 
posal. But  there  are  certain  preliminaries — " 

Constance  had  already  left  the  room. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Dr.  Granniss  came  in.  His 
cheeks  showed  a  faint  wintry  rose  of  disturbance  as  he 
looked  about  him. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  Constance  ?"  he  asked,  in  surprised 
gentleness. 

"  Yes,  doctor.  I  want  you  to  do  me  the  only  favor  I 
may  ever  ask  of  you.  My  sister  here  and  Mr.  Kenyon 
are  to  be  married  this  morning — now.  I  want  you  to 
marry  them.  Will  you  ?" 

There  was  a  deep  silence,  while  the  clergyman  consid- 


105 


ered  her  unexpected  demand.     His  wrinkled  hand  trem- 
bled as  it  rested  upon  the  table. 

"  Have  you  a  license  ?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Kenyon. 

"  No." 

"  The  State  law  requires  one.  I  cannot  honorably  per- 
form the  ceremony  without  one."  There  was  another 
painful  silence,  during  which  Kenyon  contemplated  him 
with  folded  arms. 

"  Dr.  Granniss,"  said  Constance,  clearly,  "  I  know  I 
shall  not  appeal  to  you  in  vain.  I  ask  you  to  go  through 
this  ceremony — this  form,  now,  for  my  mother's  child — 
for  my  mother's  sake." 

The  pastor's  delicate  old  face  flushed  painfully.  He 
turned  to  her  and  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"  Is  this  haste  really  so  necessary  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"  It  is." 

He  bent  his  head  in  thought. 

"  For  your  mother's  sake,"  he  said,  finally ;  "  and  be- 
cause I  know  you  all  so  well,  I  will  do  my  part  there. 
Come  a  little  forward,  please." 

The  binding  words  were  soon  spoken.  Without  many 
words  Granniss  drew  up  a  certificate. 

"  You  are  man  and  wife,"  he  said,  picking  up  his  hat 
and  stick,  and  moving  to  leave.  "  You  have  vowed  it  be- 
fore God  and  in  the  presence  of  man.  There  is  your 
voucher.  And  I  pray  you  will  be  happy  and  true  to  each 
other.  Good  -  morning.  Good  -  morning,  Miss  Con- 
stance." 

He  was  man  enough  of  the  world  to  understand  that 
the  occurrence  had  had  a  peculiar  forerunner.  He  shook 
their  hands  earnestly  but  rather  curtly.  As  the  gate 
clicked  behind  him  Constance  moved  toward  the  door. 


106 


Kenyon  was  leaning  silently  against  it.  Eleanor,  white 
to  the  lips,  watched  her  blindly. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Constance,  coming  toward  her  and 
holding  out  her  hands. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  breathed  Eleanor,  drawing  back. 
Constance's  hands  fell  to  her  sides. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  pass  ?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
to  Kenyon,  his  powerful  figure  barring  her  way.  He 
stepped  aside  without  a  word. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  looking  for  a  moment  at  him. 
In  the  single  word  lay  a  world  of  command  and  entreaty. 
He  bent  his  head  in  silence.  He  had  always  understood 
her  thus. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  called  Eleanor,  huskily,  as  Con- 
stance's hand  turned  the  knob.  "  Will  you  tell  me  now 
why  you  have  done  this  thing  to  me  —  to  Mr.  Kenyon? 
What  reason,  what  right — " 

For  a  second  Constance's  waxen  face  looked  toward 
her,  a  subtle  nobility  emanating  from  it  like  a  white 
flame. 

"  Why  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  clear,  passionless  voice. 
"  Because,  Eleanor,  there  must  be  no  shame  attached  to 
the  name  of  your  mother's  children.  If  you  do  not  un- 
derstand how  it  could  come,  1  cannot  teach  you  now." 

A  minute  later  the  elder  sister  had  passed  quietly, 
swiftly  down  the  hilly  road. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  bitterly  cold,  despite  the  dazzling  sun  overhead. 
As  Constance  neared  the  station  she  looked  at  her  watch ; 
it  was  twenty -five  minutes  past  nine.  The  next  ferry 
would  leave  at  five  minutes  to  ten.  She  began  to  walk 
slowly  up  and  down  near  the  wharf.  A  belated  school- 
girl, bound  for  the  other  side,  forgot  her  irritation  over 
having  missed  her  boat  while  watching  the  marble-faced, 
regally -moving  woman.  She  was  surely  "somebody," 
thought  the  girl,  or  a  "  woman  with  a  history."  An  Ital- 
ian fisherman,  drawing  in  his  nets,  lay  idly  rocking  in 
his  boat  with  his  eyes  upon  her.  A  tall,  stout,  well- 
groomed  old  gentleman  with  white  side-whiskers  and  an 
eye-glass  scanned  her  curiously  and  with  a  start  of  rec- 
ognition as  she  turned  and  her  hair  came  into  view.  He 
looked  searchingly  at  her,  and  was  about  to  approach  her 
when  he  saw  the  small  crowd  moving  toward  the  boat, 
and  he  moved  with  it.  Constance,  quite  unconscious  of 
being  noticed,  mechanically  mounted  the  ferry  steps  and 
seated  herself  in  the  corner  near  the  boiler,  resting  her  el- 
bow on  the  railing  and  her  head  on  her  hand.  The  throb- 
bing of  the  steam,  the  easy  sweep  of  the  boat,  soothed 
her  insensibly.  Her  gray  eyes  rested  wearily  on  the 
blue,  white-crested  waves.  She  felt  old  and  dreary  in 
this  moment  of  relaxation.  But  it  was  all  arranged 
now ;  there  was  nothing  more  for  her  to  do.  And  yet 
— would  he  be  good  to  her  ?  Habit  overrides  change ; 


108 


Eleanor  was  still  to  her  one  of  her  children.  Would  he 
be  good  to  her?  A  rush  of  memory  brought  his  face 
and  figure  before  her  as  she  had  last  seen  him — stately, 
white,  and  grand.  A  rush  of  something  else  almost  si- 
multaneously obliterated  every  other  sensation.  But  she 
shut  her  eyes  and  pressed  her  lips  hard.  A  cold,  stern, 
inner  voice  reiterated,  "  He  is  your  sister's  husband 
now  !  Remember  !  Your  sister's  husband  1"  She  was 
dumbly  trying  to  learn  the  "  never  again  "  of  the  stoic, 
the  death  in  life  which  is  an  endless  death-scene.  She 
was  painfully  startled  when  she  heard  herself  addressed. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Herriott;  I  thought  I  could  not 
be  mistaken."  A  well-groomed  old  gentleman  was  stand- 
ing before  her  with  a  beaming  face  and  gloved  hand 
outstretched.  As  she  put  her  hand  into  his  a  wave  of 
color  flushed  her  face. 

"Did  you  stop  over  at  our  little  plateau  last  night?" 
he  asked,  seating  himself  beside  her  with  an  air  of  com- 
fort. "  I  saw  your  sister  with  my  distinguished  neighbor, 
Kenyon,  coming  over,  too,  on  the  ferry  last  night.  Where 
did  she  stay  ?  May  was  expecting  her  when  I  told  her  I 
had  seen  her." 

She  had  not  thought  of  the  explanatory  contingency. 
Her  wits  worked  rapidly.  Presently  a  conventional 
smile  curved  her  lips  as  she  spoke. 

"  Why,"  she  said  —  "  well,  I  have  a  little  surprise  in 
store  for  yon,  and  others.  You  did  not  know  that  you 
were  travelling  with  a  pair  of  elopers !  My  sister  and 
Mr.  Kenyon — can  you  believe  it  ? — they  fairly  ran  off  to- 
gether last  night.  They  were  married  by  Dr.  Granniss, 
over  at  Sausalito." 

"  Miss  Herriott !     Really  ?     No  ?" 


109 


He  veered  his  huge  bulk  slowly  around  in  order  to  get 
her  more  completely  into  view.  Ah !  she  had  said  it 
well ;  there  was  only  one  meaning  to  be  taken  from  her 
words.  She  thanked  God  that  she  could  say  them  even 
so. 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded,  still  smiling  as  one  does  when  de- 
livering happy  news.  "  Geniuses  are  romantic,  you  know ; 
and  my  sister,  Lydia-Languishwise,  preferred  the  excite- 
ment of  an  elopement  to  the  conventionality  of  an  ordi- 
nary wedding.  So  they  just  took  hands  and  ran  off." 
Another  good  sentence  —  she  must  learn  it.  The  next 
time  it  would  come  more  glibly. 

"  Well,  I  am  astonished  !  You  don't  say  so  !  Well, 
well !  I  must  make  a  note  of  it,  so  as  not  to  forget  to  tell 
May  this  evening.  She  does  take  on  so  when  I  fail  to 
tell  any  piece  of  news  I  have  been  carrying  around  with 
me  all  day.  And  this  is  a  piece  of  news."  He  had  tak- 
en out  his  little  alligator-skin  note-book,  and  was  jotting 
down  a  word  or  two.  Then  he  made  an  excited  gesture 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"  But  how  are  you  taking  it  ?" 

"  With  a  smile." 

"Exactly.  That's  wise.  Tell  you  what,  Miss  Herri- 
ott,  there's  a  good  deal  more  sense  than  nonsense  in  an 
elopement ;  saves  lots  of  time,  money,  and  flummery, 
which  would  be  spent  in  mere  show.  But  I  am  aston- 
ished !  Your  little  sister  gone  and  married  to  the  young 
literary  lion  !  Do  you  think  the  couple  will  settle  down 
here  ?" 

How  easy  and  jolly  and  natural  it  sounded ! 

"  I  can't  say,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  laugh,  which 
was  almost  a  sob  of  thanksgiving.  "  You  see,  it  was  all 


110 


so  hurried,  Mr.  Turnbull.  They  have  not  told  me  their 
plans." 

"Ha,  ha!  you'll  hear  them  after  they  are  settled,  I 
suppose,  in  order  to  maintain  the  consistency.  When 
did  you  get  wind  of  it  ?" 

"  I  ?     Only  late  last  night.     Absurd,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  Wired,  I  suppose." 

"  How  else  does  news  travel  ?" 

"  So  you  came  over  to  give  them  your  blessing  and  a 
godspeed !  You're  an  early  bird.  Well,  business  is 
business.  Boss  can't  lie  calmly  abed  when  the  cashier's 
run  off  with  his  treasure.  Remarkable-looking  man,  that 
Kenyon.  Stands  out  and  over  every  one  wherever  you 
put  him.  Suppose  he  is  pretty  well  fixed  through  his 
uncle's  will.  Don't  go  much,  however,  on  the  stability  of 
a  Bohemian's  bank-account.  Genius  is  apt  to  be  either 
erratic  or  erotic.  Don't  be  surprised  if  you  find  your 
brother-in-law  surprising.  So  Dr.  Granniss  did  it. 
Queer !  The  old  gentleman  is  a  great  stickler  for  regu- 
larity. But  better  so.  Well,  here  we  are.  I  think  I'll 
telephone  to  May.  Then  she  won't  have  to  go  ferreting 
her  out,  as  she  intended  doing  this  morning  when  I  told 
her  she  had  come  over  on  the  last  boat  with  Kenyon — - 
look  out  for  those  steps,  Miss  Herriott.  Good-luck  to 
them!  They're  taking  a  risk — getting  married;  but 
what's  fire  -  proof  nowadays  ?  Which  car  do  you 
take?" 

"  The — the  Market,"  she  answered,  after  a  slight  hesi- 
tation, as  they  walked  around  the  noisy  pier.  If  she  took 
the  more  convenient  car  she  would  be  liable  to  meet  other 
acquaintances. 

The  old  gentleman  saw  her  fairly  seated,  paid  her  fare, 


Ill 


saluted,  and  was  gone.  The  car  started  off.  It  was  quite 
empty — a  fact  for  which  she  was  grateful,  as  she  felt  fever- 
ish and  uncanny.  Several  men  were  seated  on  the  dum- 
my, but  no  one  came  in  till  they  reached  Lotta's  fountain. 
She  dimly  saw  the  waiting  crowd,  old  Father  Elphic's 
white,  uncovered  hair,  and  the  baskets  of  violets  and 
chrysanthemums  held  by  the  importunate  little  boy  vend- 
ers. A  few  women  got  in.  Some  one  touched  her 
slightly  on  the  sleeve  and  took  the  seat  beside  her.  It 
was  Mrs.  Ferris. 

"  Good  -morning,  Miss  Constance.  Lovely  morning, 
isn't  it  ?  Been  shopping  ?"  she  asked,  with  that  airiness 
which  makes  a  question  a  mere  formula,  and  which  takes 
no  cognizance  of  an  answer.  "  Haven't  you  lost  your 
bearings  by  taking  this  car?"  There  was  a  steely  bright- 
ness in  her  eyes — a  covert  curiosity,  well-spiced  with  some 
anterior  knowledge. 

"  I  shall  transfer  to  the  Powell  Street  line." 

"A  little  roundabout,  I  should  think.  I  had  some 
business  to  transact  on  Market  Street,  and  as  I  am  due  at 
my  dress-maker's,  make  the  connection  this  way.  Did 
you  hear  the  news  last  night?"  The  sharp,  ferret  eyes 
were  upon  her ;  the  slight,  abrupt  change  of  expression 
which  flitted  over  Constance's  face  was  not  unobserved. 

"  I  scarcely  think  I  know  to  what  you  refer,"  Con- 
stance ventured,  almost  naturally.  "  One  hears  so  many 
rumors.  I  generally  wait  before  I  consider  them  con- 
firmed facts." 

"  As  some  people  wait  for  the  evening  paper  before 
they  pronounce  the  morning  news  verified.  Don't  you 
think  life  is  too  short  for  such  long  entr'actes  ?  It  must 
make  the  play  rather  slow,  as  it  were.  I  was  referring 


112 


to  Mrs.  Vassault's  proposed  fancy-dress  affair.  By-the- 
bye,  I  suppose  your  sister  Eleanor — " 

"  Ah,  here  we  are  at  Powell  Street,"  interrupted  Con- 
stance, with  a  motion  to  the  conductor  to  stop.  Cross- 
ing Market  Street  at  mid-day  is  not  a  careless  affair.  With 
its  numberless  cable-cars  thrumming  up  and  down,  horse- 
cars  interspersed  ad  libitum,  trucks  thundering  over  the 
rails  and  cobble-stones,  carts  whizzing  by  without  regard 
to  life  or  limb,  car-bells  ringing  incessant  warnings  to  the 
thousands  of  intrepid  foot-passengers  darting  in  and  out 
in  alarming  proximity  to  revolving  wheels,  it  is  a  hazard- 
ous undertaking,  and  one  is  always  thankful  when  safely 
over  the  slippery,  well-watered  street. 

There  was  a  prolonged  pause  in  Mrs.  Ferris's  and  Con- 
stance's conversation,  during  which  time  Constance  steeled 
herself  to  make  the  best  front  before  this  consummate 
female  barterer  of  all  privacy.  As  soon  as  they  were 
safely  seated  again,  Mrs.  Ferris  picked  up  her  broken  sen- 
tence and  rounded  it. 

"  I  suppose  your  sister  Eleanor  will  go.  There  are  so 
many  charming  characters  she  could  personate.  I  sug- 
gested to  Mrs.  Vassault  that  she  ask  the  girls  to  repre- 
sent different  courts.  For  instance,  there  is  Elizabeth's, 
Louis  Fifteenth's  (the  women  of  the  Salon),  and  those  of 
Martha  Washington's  time.  Now,  in  regard  to  your 
sister  Eleanor,  I  think  that  her  vivacity  would  suit  the 
French — " 

"  One  minute,  Mrs.  Ferris,"  put  in  Constance,  with 
successfully  forced  sang-froid.  "  I  have  been  endeavor- 
ing to  tell  you  another  piece  of  news  ever  since  we  met. 
Did  you  know  that  my  sister  Eleanor  is  married  ?"  Her 
words  were  followed  by  an  overwhelming  thought : 


113 


"  Thank  God — thank  God  now  ! — that  my  sister  is  mar- 
ried !" 

"  Your  sister  Eleanor  ?  Married  !"  The  intense  color 
in  Mrs.  Ferris's  sallow  cheek  attested  to  the  force  of  the 
sensation.  "  Heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  She  went  gayly  off  with  Mr.  Kenyon  yesterday — was 
married  to  him  over  at  Sausalito." 

"  An  elopement  then  !"  Mrs.  Ferris  was  off  her  guard. 
Constance  recognized  the  knowledge  of  which  this  ex- 
clamation was  an  outgrowth. 

"Exactly.  These — these  geniuses  are  romantic,  you 
know,  and  Eleanor,  like  another  Lydia  Languish,  always 
said  she  preferred  the  excitement  of  an  elopement  to 
the  more  conventional,  ordinary  wedding.  So  they  just 
took  hands  and  ran  off — like  children  !" 

The  news  had  robbed  Mrs.  Ferris  of  her  presence  of 
mind.  Her  eyes  looked  ready  to  start  from  their  sock- 
ets. She  glanced  in  uneasy  bewilderment  from  Con- 
stance to  the  window.  They  had  reached  a  corner,  and 
she  motioned  hurriedly  to  the  conductor, 

"  I  forgot,"  she  murmured,  putting  a  flurried  hand 
upon  Constance's.  "  I  must  get  out  here.  You  have  so 
surprised  me,  too  !  But — but — I  congratulate  you — 
good-bye — I'll  see  you  soon  again." 

As  her  tall,  thin  figure  disappeared  on  the  car-step, 
Constance  looked  out  of  the  window.  Down  the  street 
before  a  millinery-shop  she  plainly  discerned  Mrs.  Yas- 
sault's  carriage,  with  its  rather  prominent  coachman  in 
green-and- white  livery.  She  understood.  Mrs.  Ferris's 
ruling  passion  had  claimed  her. 

"  The  ball  is  set  rolling,"  she  thought,  in  grim  weari- 
ness. "  It  was  a  little  turn  of  luck  that  enabled  me 


114 


to  give  Mrs.  Ferris  the  news  first -hand.  It  may  not 
come  out  altogether  distorted  now." 

The  sight  of  her  own  door-step  was  a  welcome  greet- 
ing. When  her  foot  touched  the  first  step  she  felt  as 
though  an  elegant  robe  of  state  had  slipped  from  her  and 
left  her  free  to  clothe  herself  as  she  would.  The  sense 
of  the  familiar  is  always  peculiarly  soothing  and  comfort- 
ing to  all  solitary,  thoughtful  souls.  She  stood  in  her 
rightful  realm,  alone  in  the  arched  doorway.  The  mar- 
ble under  her  feet,  the  oak  panels  behind  her,  knew  her 
and  recognized  her  as  theirs  in  a  silence  like  that  which 
distinguishes  familiar  loves  from  the  noisier  contact  of 
the  less  intimate. 

Before  she  could  ring,  the  door  was  flung  open. 
Grace  and  the  two  children  stood  in  the  doorway,  ex- 
cited and  red-eyed. 

"  Oh,  Constance,"  they  cried,  "  we  have  been  so  upset ! 
Where—" 

Constance  closed  the  door  quickly  as  she  stepped 
in.  "Come  into  the  library,  dears,"  she  said.  "I'm 
cold." 

They  followed  her  silently.  The  mark  of  years  was 
upon  the  new-comer.  She  drew  off  her  hat  and  coat,  and 
went  to  the  fire. 

Marjorie  burst  forth,  in  sobbing  excitement,  "Edith 
isn't  at  school.  A  girl  came  and  said  she  hadn't  been  at 
school  for  four  days.  Miss  Temple  wants  to  know  why, 
and  Eleanor  didn't  come  home — you  were  out  before 
we  got  up,  and  Grace  hurt  me  when  she  dressed  me, 
and — and  —  it's  all  so  uncomftafiddle  !"  The  shrill, 
childish  voice  broke  in  a  flood  of  tears  as  she  rushed  to 
Constance  and  hid  her  head  in  her  gown.  The  wretch- 


115 


edness  of  disorder  had  penetrated  even  to  the  baby. 
Constance  turned  a  questioning  face  to  Grace. 

"  What  is  this  about  Edith  3"  she  asked,  in  a  harsh, 
quick  tone. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Grace,  in  pale  affright,  re- 
garding the  changed,  haggard  face  before  her.  "  Miss 
Temple  sent  one  of  the  girls  to  find  out  why  Edith  had 
not  been  to  school  for  four  days.  She  did  go,  didn't 
she,  Constance?  And,  Constance,  what — what  is  the 
matter,  that  Eleanor  does  not  come  home  ?" 

"  Wait,"  answered  Constance,  sharply.  New  mystery  ! 
New  misery ! 

"  I  shall  go  over  to  the  school  now.  Stay  in-doors  till 
I  get  back.  What  time  is  it  ?" 

"  Eleven  o'clock." 

Still  morning !     Would  the  day  never  end  ? 

Constance  was  out  in  the  street  again,  her  temples 
throbbing  hammer  and  tongs,  her  limbs,  stiff  and  numb, 
almost  crying  out  their  pain  as  she  walked  on  to  the 
large  private  school  on  the  heights.  Miss  Temple  greeted 
her  visitor  with  marked  deference.  She  had  little  to  say 
except  that  Edith  had  been  absent,  and  she  had  made  it 
a  rule  to  inquire  after  the  fourth  day. 

"  She  was  seen  each  day  but  the  day  of  the  storm  by 
a  number  of  the  girls,  apparently  on  her  way  to  school 
with  her  books." 

"  Yes.  She  started  at  the  usual  hour  and  has  returned 
as  usual,"  replied  her  sister,  imperturbably.  "  Do  not 
let  me  detain  you,  Miss  Temple.  Thank  you  for  in- 
forming me.  I  shall  have  to  punish  her  accordingly. 
Good-morning." 

Miss  Temple  was  somewhat  abstracted  afte"r  the  quiet 


116 


woman  had  left.  "  She  looks  ill,"  she  reflected.  "  She 
must  have  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  all  those  girls !" 

Constance  turned  again  homeward.  She  passed  houses 
of  all  descriptions,  from  quaint  Queen  Anne  and  feudal- 
looking  castles  to  simple,  old-fashioned  cottages  with 
old-fashioned  gardens,  like  country-girls  astray  in  town 
for  a  holiday.  She  halted  suddenly,  as  if  to  find 
her  inner  bearings,  at  the  corner  of  Fillmore  Street  and 
Broadway,  whence  an  almost  perpendicular  declivity 
descended  abruptly,  sloping  gradually  in  billowy  undula- 
tions to  the  bay.  She  leaned  against  the  low,  rickety 
fence  which  surrounded  the  lupine-grown  lot,  and  let  her 
eye  sweep  over  the  soft  harmony  of  colors  beyond  :  the 
deep  blue  of  the  bay,  with  its  still,  white  sails  at  anchor; 
Angel  Island,  stretched  like  a  slumbering,  dun-colored 
dream-god;  behind  it  the  foot-hills,  rising  gradually  into 
the  purple,  starry-pointing  Tamalpais,  which  the  tender 
cheek  of  heaven  seemed  to  touch — all  parts  of  a  poem  of 
divine  inspiration.  But  again  her  gaze  fell  to  the  water, 
and  swept  around  the  curve  where  Golden  Gate  opens 
like  a  neck  of  silver  into  the  head-waters  of  the  great 
Pacific — a  cramped  little  soul  bursting  its  bounds.  Con- 
stance, too,  reached  out  for  immateriality.  Cares  and 
frets  dropped  from  her  like  frail  rose-petals  in  the  breeze. 
For  five  minutes,  at  least,  she  ceased  to  think. 

At  that  moment  a  man  descending  the  steps  of  the 
house  opposite  was  attracted  by  the  leaning  figure  of  the 
woman.  He  paused  and  peered  carefully,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand  in  the  manner  of  the  near-sighted. 
Then  he  crossed  over  with  an  air  of  uncertainty.  As 
he  approached  his  step  gained  in  alacrity. 

"  Well,  Constance  Herriott,  the  Abstracted,"  he  said, 


117 


before  his  foot  had  touched  the  sidewalk,  "  where  are 
your  thoughts  ?" 

She  started  violently  as  she  turned  toward  him. 

"  I  can't  locate  my  thoughts  just  now,"  she  said,  with 
a  wandering  smile.  "Where  did  you  spring  from, 
Geoffrey,  at  this  hour  of  the  day  ?" 

"  From  yonder,"  he  replied,  nodding  toward  the  dark, 
imposing  mansion,  his  penetrating  eye  silently  taking  in 
the  sad  discomposure  of  her  face,  but  seeming  to  take 
no  cognizance.  "  Been  aiding  Stephen  Gage  to  deliver 
himself  before  the  Highest  Magistrate  with  a  clear  con- 
science. His  charities  are  all  posthumous,  so  I  suppose 
his  beatitude  will  be  coincident.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment he  is  dying  a  very  miserable,  lonely  death.  You 
see,  giving  up  anything  is  hard  for  a  miser,  and  when  it 
comes  to  life  and  fortune,  the  moment  is  better  imagined 
than  described.  I'll  walk  home  with  you." 

They  crossed  the  street,  passing  the  darkened  house 
whence  Brunton  had  just  emerged.  Before  the  next 
door  stood  several  carriages.  Just  as  they  came  near, 
the  chords  of  Mendelssohn's  "  Wedding  March  "  pealed 
out  exultingly.  As  the  paean  of  joy  reached  them,  Brun- 
ton remarked,  grimly : 

"Life!  Here — good  heavens!  Constance,  what  is 
it?"  She  had  grasped  his  arm  and  hurried  him  on  breath- 
lessly, her  face  working  with  anguish. 

"Hurry,"  she  whispered,  hoarsely,  "hurry,  I  can't 
hear  that— I  can't  bear  it !" 

When  they  had  got  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  music,  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  painful  smile. 

"  That  march  —  that  march,  Geoffrey,"  she  faltered, 
"  always  affects  me  strangely  !  It  depicts  happiness  so 


118 


confident,  so  solemn,  that  it  is  heavy  with  pain.  It  exults 
so,  Geoffrey.  Whenever  I  hear  it,  it  excites  me  almost 
to  delirium,  and,  before  I  know  it,  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 
And,  Geoffrey — you  don't  know  it  yet — but  Eleanor  is 
married." 

It  escaped  her  with  resistless  force.  Brunton  turned 
pale. 

"  Eleanor  ?     Nonsense  !     To  whom  ?" 

"  To  Mr.  Kenyon." 

"  When  ?" 

It  was  not  coming  out  right.  What  was  it  she  had 
said  to  the  others?  Oh,  why  could  she  not  remember ! 
Yes.  She  had  it  now. 

"  They  ran  off  together  yesterday,  and  were  married 
over  at  Sausalito — by  Dr.  Granniss.  You  know  old  Dr. 
Granniss — you  have  heard  of  him,  Geoffrey  ?  It  is  just 
out — of  course.  Even  you — you — " 

"  Hush,  Constance."  Her  excitement  was  painful  to 
witness.  The  excitement  to  which  a  calm  personality 
so  utterly  submits  must  have  a  mighty  cause. 

"  You  think  it  odd  for  a  girl  like  Eleanor  to  elope," 
she  pursued,  unheedingly.  "  But  you  see,  Geoffrey,  Mr. 
Kenyon  is — is  a  genius — and  these  geniuses — and  Elea- 
nor— Lydia  Languish — it  couldn't — you  know  it  is  dif- 
ferent— they — " 

"  I  understand,  Constance.  I  beg  you  to  say  no 
more." 

She  had  bungled  sadly.  Before  Brunton's  truth-com- 
pelling, kindly  gaze  the  stereotyped  phrases  melted  into 
incoherency.  Her  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  Excitement, 
fatigue,  and  want  of  sleep  and  food  had  undermined  her 
wonted  equanimity.  Brunton  walked  beside  her,  help- 


119 


less  in  his  yearning  strength.  He  dared  not  question 
her,  he  could  neither  congratulate  nor  console.  He 
stood  before  a  wall  of  mystery  which  hid,  he  knew,  some 
tragic  occurrence.  She  made  no  further  attempt  to  speak 
till  they  reached  her  steps.  Then,  she  held  out  her  hand, 
and  raised  her  heavy  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  assure  you,  though,  it  is  all  right,  Geoffrey,"  she 
said,  simply,  in  a  dull,  even  voice. 

He  held  her  hand  in  a  strong  grasp.  "  Constance," 
he  said,  quietly,  "  there  are  things  that  only  a  man  can 
do.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  don't  need  me  now?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  shake  of  her  head,  the 
deeper  meaning  of  his  tender  words  and  tone  unheeded 
in  her  numbed  senses. 

"  Not  now,"  she  answered. 

"  God  help  you,"  he  said,  with  the  submission  which 
knows  no  alternative — "  God  help  you !  since  you  will 
give  no  one  else  the  right.  But  you  are  wrong." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  and  he  turned  silently  away. 

At  about  half-past  three  that  afternoon  Edith  Herriott 
came  in  with  glowing  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes.  She 
threw  her  books  upon  a  chair,  and  was  about  to  run  up- 
stairs when  Constance  arrested  her. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  asked,  in  stern  deliber- 
ation. 

The  girl  quailed  and  turned  a  guilty  red.  The  words 
struggling  to  her  lips  found  no  utterance. 

"Do  not  lie  further,  Edith,"  continued  her  sister. 
"  You  have  not  been  at  school.  Answer  me  at  once, 
and  truthfully.  Where  have  you  been?" 

Edith  turned  like  a  stag  at  bay.  The  other  children 
listened  breathlessly. 


120 


"  I — I — well,  if  I  must  tell,  I  was  bicycling  at  the  park. 
You  know,  Constance,"  she  rushed  on,  recklessly  trying 
to  exculpate  herself  —  "you  know  I  have  begged  and 
begged  you  to  let  me  go ;  and  now  that  Jennie  Under- 
wood is  learning,  I  thought  I  would  just  take  the  chance 
at  last.  You  said  you  didn't  believe  in  it ;  you  wouldn't 
try  to  think  it  might  give  me  pleasure ;  there  was  no 
harm  in  it ;  it  was  only  that  you  are  so  immovable  and 
unreasonable.  I  did  want  to  go,  so  I  went  without,  ask- 
ing you — it  was  my  only  way." 

Constance  listened  to  her  stonily.  Suddenly  they 
witnessed  a  marvel :  her  head  sank  to  her  knees,  her 
form  shook  with  dry  sobs.  They  looked  at  each  other 
in  consternation ;  the  little  ones  began  to  cry.  Edith, 
white  and  conscience  -  stricken,  approached  her  wretch- 
edly. 

"  Oh,  Constance,"  she  cried,  "  Constance,  forgive  me  ! 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  so.  Constance,  darling,  won't 
you  ever  speak  to  me  again  ?" 

She  had  sunk  to  her  knees  before  her  in  abject  misery. 
After  a  moment  Constance  raised  her  head. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  bitterly,  "  am  I  so  unjust  and 
hard  that  you  cannot  trust  me  ?  Am  I  so  cruel  that  you 
have  to  be  underhand  to  escape  my  tyranny  ?  Have  I 
only  made  you  hate  me,  after  all  ?  And  yet,  children,  I 
cannot  rid  you  of  me." 

The  words  died  on  her  lips  in  a  storm  of  caresses. 
Little  hands  smoothed  her  hair,  sobbing  whispers  im- 
plored her  to  forgive,  clinging  arms  pressed  her  in  love. 

"Get  up,  Edith,"  said  Constance,  finally,  in  a  tired, 
gentle  voice,  to  the  crouching  girl.  "  I  don't  think  you 
will  ever  deceive  me  again.  Will  you,  dear?  No,  I  am 


121 


sure  not.     Kiss  me,  child ;  I  only  meant  to  be  kind  to 
you." 

After  a  pause  she  spoke  again.  "  And  now  please 
listen,  dears,  all  of  you,  for  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  a//,"  she  said,  in  grave  seriousness.  "  Eleanor  is  mar- 
ried. She  is  married  to  our  good  friend  Mr.  Kenyon. 
Isn't  that  news?  That  is  why  she  did  not  come  home 
last  night.  They  were  married  over  at  Sausalito  by 
Dr.  Granniss.  It  has  all  been  a  secret.  I  do  not  know 
what  they  are  going  to  do  just  vet.  They  are.  over  there 
now.  I  saw  them  this  morning.  It  is  to  go  into  the 
evening  papers."  And  so  the  news  was  told  to  Eleanor's 
sisters. 

Night  closed  in.  The  surprise  was  over.  The  younger 
ones  crept  off  to  bed.  Grace  laid  her  hand  upon  Con- 
stance's, and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Constance,  is  Eleanor  going  to  be  happy  ?" 

And  the  quiet  answer  was,  "  Let  us  pray  so,  dear." 

What  other  reply  could  be  more  practical  and  safe  ? 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  BOARD  THE  UP ." 

I  AM  quite  alone,  Constance  dear.  The  sea  is  grave 
and  gray,  reflecting  the  smileless  sky  which  looks  into 
it.  The  steamer  glides  on  almost  imperceptibly,  leaving 
in  its  wake  a  long  black  shadow,  a  momentary  record 
that  something  has  passed.  Nothing  is  without  shadow. 
Over  the  waters  sweeps  the  flying  image  of  two  sea- 
gulls, winging  heavenward  like  soaring  seraphim.  Noth- 
ing is  without  meaning  —  when  we  breathe  there  is  a 
mist  upon  the  glass.  Yet  who  can  rightly  interpret  the 
flying  shadow  of  a  soul  ? 

Constance,  I  want  you  to  understand.  I  want  you  to 
know  me  as  I  am,  not  as  I  seem  to  be,  but  stripped  of 
all  the  flimsy  little  charms  which  hid  my  weak  and  baser 
instincts,  and  left  me  at  least  tolerable.  I  wonder  if 
there  are  many  as  I — if,  under  all  the  suave  smiles  and 
apparent  indifference,  beat  hearts  as  vain  and  selfish  and 
passionate  as  mine.  God  help  the  sad  old  world  if  it  is 
so.  And  yet,  perhaps,  such  a  vast  hypocrisy  is  better 
in  the  long-run — though  it  is  like  a  fair  building  built 
over  the  ugly  crater  of  an  apparently  extinct  volcano,  but 
holding  forces  which  some  day  will  rise  in  one  tumultu- 
ous upheaval  and  lay  the  pretty  conventionality  low. 

I  am  at  your  feet.  Look  down,  Constance,  with  your 
indulgent  eyes,  and  when  you  have  heard,  will  you  not 
try  to  forgive  ? 


123 


You  know  ray  childish  faults ;  there  is  no  need  to  re- 
capitulate or  excuse.  But  do  you  remember  what  our 
German  governess  said  the  day  I  shattered  the  Sevres 
vase  because  my  sash  was  narrower  than  yours  ?  "  The 
apple,"  she  said,  "  falls  not  far  from  the  tree."  I  did 
not  understand  then,  but  I  do  now.  She  remembered 
that  I  had  a  father.  Men  and  women  who  expect  to  be 
fathers  and  mothers  some  day  owe  a  grave  duty  to  the 
helpless  victims  they  will  bring  into  the  world — the  duty 
to  be  noble. 

It  was  only  after  I  met  Hall  Kenyon  that  you  ceased 
to  know  me.  Because  from  that  moment  I  was  changed. 
I  saw  him.  That  was  the  end  —  or,  the  beginning.  I 
never  learned  the  nursery  rule  of  counting  ten  before 
acting ;  I  never  reason.  Neither  can  you  drive  me  with 
a  whip.  Good  or  bad,  my  words,  my  deeds,  must  be  the 
result  of  some  impulse  which  seizes  and  binds  me,  and 
rushes  me  madly  on. 

I  should  have  been  content  enough  to  love  without 
being  loved.  I  was  happy,  in  a  dreamy  fashion,  just  in 
thinking  of  him,  in  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  I 
should  see  him  again.  I  did  not  long  for  his  love  at 
first.  It  was  only  after  I  saw  that  it  was  given  to  another 
that  it  became  to  me  the  one  desire  of  my  being.  The 
fairest  things  in  life  are  those  which  belong  to  others ; 
that  is  the  creed  of  the  egoist  and  the  hungry. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  I  hated  you  !  There  !  It  is  out.  I 
could  no  more  retard  my  pen  from  writing  it  than  I 
could  withhold  my  soul  from  feeling  it  in  that  moment 
when  I  saw  his  eyes  look  love  to  you.  Constance,  Con- 
stance, my  heart  grows  faint  with  the  weight  of  the 
hatred  I  held  for  you.  If  you  had  fallen  dead  as  you 


124 


stood  before  him  it  would  have  been  but  the  consum- 
mation of  my  unspoken  imprecation ;  and  if  not  dead, 
hurt,  maimed,  made  ugly  —  in  his  sight,  at  least.  Do 
you  turn  pale  ?  Do  you  understand  my  blackness  now  ? 
God  has  been  good  to  me  in  this  :  in  my  worst  moments 
I  held  no  weapon.  Yet  wait.  All  this  was  as  nothing 
to  what  I  felt  when  I,  Eleanor  Herriott,  listened  at  the 
door  when  he  offered  you  the  most  sacred  gift  in  his 
keeping.  Yes,  yes,  I  listened — let  me  hurry  in  the  tell- 
ing. I  desecrated  the  scene,  perhaps,  but  not  as  I 
desecrated  my  own  womanhood.  Sometimes  I  think  my 
self-contempt  will  eat  holes  into  my  heart. 

That  night — are  you  indulgent  now,  my  angel  ? — that 
night  I  drugged  myself  to  keep  my  hands  from  doing 
that  which  my  passion  prompted.  Yet  they  say  love 
ennobles ;  there  is  another  side  for  such  as  I:  an  epigram 
is  never  always  true.  If  there  are  many  like  me,  there 
are  more  assassins  out  of  jail  than  in.  When  daylight 
came  I  wanted  the  night  again.  Thank  God  for  night, 
Constance.  The  sun  is  an  ugly  searchlight  to  the  heart 
which  knows  its  guilt.  I  wandered  off;  I  wished  neither 
to  see  nor  to  be  seen.  I  came  to  the  ocean.  It  is  great 
and  wide  and  cool ;  it  lulls  many  a  fever.  But  before  I 
reached  it  I  was  withheld. 

He  stood  before  me  on  the  shore.  I  am  not  a  fatalist, 
but  sometimes  the  parallels  of  consequence  run  strangely 
close.  He  was  gaunt,  miserable,  wretched.  That  form 
upon  the  sands  made  the  world  beyond  a  sickening  void. 
Love  has  much  to  answer  for  :  it  not  only  makes  human- 
ity miserable,  but  keeps  it  from  flinging  off  its  misery. 
And,  Constance,  he  was — mad.  He  was  desiring  death. 
In  one  frightful  second  I  kept  his  feet  from  slipping 


125 


from  the  verge.  I  think  he  had  wandered  about,  almost 
insane,  the  whole  preceding  night.  He  was  ill — so  ill 
that  he  scarcely  knew  me.  I  held  him  back.  There  was 
but  one  thing  for  me  to  do  —  to  take  him  home.  I 
decided  it  in  a  flash.  I  saw  nothing  else,  like  the  pho- 
tographer who,  looking  into  the  camera  darkened  on  all 
sides,  sees  nothing  but  the  one  spot  where  all  rays  con- 
verge. He  was  helpless  in  my  hands,  and  I  —  I  loved 
him.  I  brought  him  home  ;  in  that  wild  hour  the  world 
held  no  place  for  me.  He  could  not  deter  me,  I  could 
not  leave  him.  There  was  little  I  could  do  for  him. 
Once  home,  he  sank  into  a  stupor.  I  sat  and  watched 
him  through  the  night  without  a  movement.  When  the 
first  signs  of  waking  came  to  him  I  caught  my  breath 
as  though  it  had  been  suspended  in  his  sleep.  And  so 
you  found  us. 

Do  you  know  how  your  implication  struck  into  me  ?  I 
had  been  in  heaven — a  heaven  as  pure  as  can  be  found  on 
earth.  You  stepped  in  with  a  warrant  of  arrest  from  the 
world  —  from  the  breeders  of  scandal.  Whether  you 
wronged  him  then  in  thought,  I  do  not  know ;  but  now 
you  must  believe  how  guiltless  he  was.  You  know  he 
was  blameless,  don't  you,  Constance  ?  Whatever  wrong 
was  done,  I  did  it.  I  could  have  choked  you  with  your 
words.  Did  /  wish  to  be  foisted  upon  a  man  for  the 
mere  sake  of  gossip  —  upon  a  man  whom  I  loved  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else, and  to  whom  I  was — but  your  sister  ? 
But  presently,  when  he  had  spoken,  I  saw  something 
else  !  It  flashed  upon  me.  Let  me  be  frank.  It  was  not 
fear  of  slander  which  made  me  acquiesce.  It  was  another 
phase  of  love — the  selfish,  jealous  phase.  He  would  be 
mine,  not  yours ! — in  name,  at  least !  Perhaps — ,  O  hope, 


126 


hope,  what  a  Fata  Morgana  you  are !  As  his  wife,  he 
could  not  slip  entirely  from  me  ;  as  his  wife,  I  had  a 
chance  of  winning  him  to  me.  And  yet  when  you  left 
I  hated  you  doubly,  because  in  that  moment  when  you 
bound  him  to  me  he  still  loved  you  more  than  he  ever 
had  or  would.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  wall  which 
grew  about  my  heart.  Because  he  loved  you,  he  must 
never  know  that  /  loved  him — I,  his  wife. 

I  think  it  was  a  half-hour  after  you  had"  gone  that 
morning  that  he  came  over  to  me  and  said,  with  an  at- 
tempt at  playfulness: 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  contretemps  which  provides  you 
with  a  roue  of  a  husband,  Eleanor  !  But  we  may  as 
well  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job  and  do  it  up  brown. 
We  may  as  well  go  across  and  have  it  recorded  civilly. 
It  will  not  put  you  to  any  further  inconvenience  or  pub- 
licity. What  do  you  say  ?"  He  held  out  his  hand.  If 
I  had  put  my  arms  about  his  neck  I  would  have  been 
following  my  bent.  But  I  neither  took  his  hand  nor 
answered. 

"  It  will  be  best  for  both  of  us,"  he  went  on.  "  The 
ceremony  just  performed  has  been  binding  enough,  but 
as  a  sop  to  our  consciences  it  will  be  well  to  go  through 
the  full  conventionality.  After  that,  if  you  wish,  I  need 
no  longer  annoy  you  by  my  presence.  But  I  think  we 
could  become  good  comrades,  if  nothing  more.  Are  you 
willing  to  make  the  trial?"  I  cannot  explain  to  you  the 
eagerness  of  his  tone  ;  it  was  more  dauntless  than  plead- 
ing, more  stubborn  than  deferential. 

"  It  can  make  but  little  difference,"  I  answered,  list- 
lessly, but  with  feverish  pulses. 


127 


He  looked  at  me  almost  triumphantly  as  he  added: 
"  Good.  That  is  brave.  Let  us  put  on  a  happy  front. 
We  may  even  come  to  deceiving  ourselves  if  successful 
in  deceiving  others."  After  that  I  understood  that  he 
was  going  to  meet  the  situation — you,  to  speak  by  the 
letter — with  a  sort  of  bravado.  And  I  fell  in  with  the 
scheme,  knowing  that  I  was,  as  I  had  always  been,  but 
the  undesired  yet  inevitable  third  party,  of  no  conse- 
quence to  any  one  but  myself.  There  is  little  dignity 
to  my  love. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  came  across  and  went  to  the 
Lick.  After  which  he  went  to  the  City  Hall. 

So  we  are  bound.  Let  me  not  desecrate  the  term 
"  marriage"  by  calling  a  few  meaningless  words  by  that 
name.  He  and  I  now,  this  minute,  are  no  more  married 
than  are  two  trees  which  happen  to  be  planted  next  each 
other !  Marriage  means  something  deeper — it  lies  in  the 
roots  of  both ;  when  they  reach  out  to  each  other,  then 
the  trees  are  wedded,  and  one  cannot  tie  the  knot  alone. 

When  we  were  again  alone  he  looked  at  his  watch. 
I  have  never  seen  him  more  business-like. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  our  going  abroad  ?"  he  asked, 
as  if  he  were  asking  me  to  go  out  to  dine  with  him. 

"At  once?"  I  questioned.  My  face  was  burning  with 
excitement. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  not  prepared." 

"  You  could  easily  get,  this  afternoon,  all  that  you 
would  require  till  we  reach  New  York." 

"  At  what  time  does  the  train  leave  ?" 

"  At  half-past  six." 

I  thought  quickly.     Then  I  decided  to  send  for  my 


128 


trunk.  I  directed  the  message  to  Grace,  as  you  know. 
I  could  not  regard  you  as  a  friend  of  whom  I  could  ask 
even  this  slight  favor — you  were  to  me  only  the  love  of 
the  man  I  loved  ;  therefore,  my  enemy  !  You,  dearest ! 
Oh,  Constance ! 

We  left  that  night.  A  few  days  later  I  saw  a  Chroni- 
cle, in  the  society  news  of  which  I  read  :  "  Hall  Kenyon 
and  his  bride  left  hastily  last  night  for  New  York  en 
route  for  Europe."  He  passed  me  the  paper  himself,  and 
I  could  feel  myself  pale  as  I  read.  "  It  reads  smoothly," 
he  said. 

We  paint  the  landscape  with  our  mood.  I  could  tell 
you  little  of  what  I  saw.  It  was  all  unreal  to  me — the 
flying  country,  the  other  passengers,  and  the  man  who 
sat  opposite  me.  The  fevered  remembrance  of  what 
had  passed  was  too  much  like  a  sensational  play  to  seem 
to  pertain  to  my  life,  though  my  surroundings  were  the 
outcome.  At  times  he  would  enact  the  part  of  cicerone 
in  a  kindly,  off-hand  manner,  as  an  experienced  traveller 
might  to  a  young  student  who  happened  to  be  thrown 
in  with  him. 

He  is  not  unkind  to  me,  Constance.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man, you  know,  and  to  one  of  that  caste  every  woman 
calls  for  courtesy  and  consideration. 

Sometimes  when  lie  passed  through  the  car  I  noticed 
the  men  and  women  turn  to  look  after  him  with  admi- 
ration. It  was  a  painful  ecstasy  to  know  that  he  was 
mine — according  to  the  bond. 

The  evening  before  we  reached  New  York  he  told  me 
in  a  few  words  about  Griff.  You  remember  Severn  men- 
tioned the  name  in  one  of  his  letters.  "  He  is  a  little 
fellow,"  Hall  said,  "  who  has  lived  with  me  for  the  past 


129 


two  years,  lie  is  a  cross  between  my  secretary  and  my 
conscience.  This  trip  was  the  only  one  which  has  sep- 
arated us  for  any  length  of  time,  and  I  don't  know  how 
he  has  weathered  the  interval.  He  has  had  charge  of 
my  rooms  at  the  club  during  my  absence.  I  wonder 
what  you  will  think  of  him." 

We  drove  directly  to  the  Savoy.  After  luncheon  he 
went  out  to  get  passage  for  us  on  the  steamer  which 
sailed  the  next  day. 

"  You  won't  be  lonesome,  will  you  ?"  he  asked.  As 
I  told  you,  he  is  very  conscientious  in  his  kindness. 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  I  can  look  out  of  the  windows  or 
read  the  newspapers."  I  had  long  since  made  up  my 
mind  never  to  act  as  a  chain  or  weight  to  his  inclina- 
tions. 

"  I'll  send  Griff  to  you,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob.  "  Perhaps,  when  I  return,  you  will  like  to 
do  some  shopping?"  But  there  was  nothing,  and  he 
left. 

About  half  an  hour  later  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door.  I  opened  it  expectantly. 

"  I  am  Griff,"  said  a  low  voice.  I  looked  down.  I 
asked  him  to  come  in.  The  unreality  of  my  sensations 
was  not  lessened  as  I  looked.  He  is  very  small,  some- 
thing over  four  feet,  weighted  down  by  a  cruel  hump. 
His  head  is  large,  and  covered  with  fine,  straw-colored 
hair ;  his  skin  is  a  dull  white;  his  eyes  are  preposterously 
large,  and  of  a  clear,  green  hue.  His  appearance  was  so 
unexpected,  so  gnome-like  and  ugly,  that  for  a  moment 
I  was  quite  bewildered. 

"  He  did  not  tell  you,  then  ?"  he  questioned,  in  a  sweet, 
gentle  voice.  I  started,  conscience-stricken.  What  had 

9 


130 


my  eyes  betrayed?  He  was  regarding  me  with  his  pe- 
culiar, limpid  eyes,  in  which  lay  the  patience  of  a  St. 
Francis. 

"  Will  you  sit  down  ?"  I  asked,  and  he  took  a  seat 
somewhat  removed,  with  an  air  of  reserve  which  was 
quite  distinct  from  humility.  And  presently  we  were 
chatting  in  low,  peaceful  voices  ;  his  own  voice  is  like 
the  approach  of  an  incense-bearer — it  hushes  all  unseem- 
liness. 

Once,  in  a  pause,  he  said,  quietly,  "If  there  is  ever 
anything  you  should  want  me  to  do  for  you,  command 
me.  My  life  belongs  to  you  now,  as  well  as  to  Hall." 
He  called  him  "  Hall,"  though  the  familiarity  had  a  cu- 
rious intonation — almost  such  as  accompanies  the  word 
"  Jesus"  on  the  lips  of  a  devotee. 

"  Belongs  ?"  I  repeated,  uncomprehendingly. 

"  Yes.     You  know  he  saved  my  life." 

My  breathless  attention  drew  him  on. 

"  The  river,  you  know.  It  is  Lethe.  He  drew  me  from 
it.  When  I  revived,  before  I  could  reproach  him,  he 
said,  i  I  promise  you  a  surer  happiness  than  that  which 
you  sought.'  He  has  kept  his  word.  The  reproach  can 
never  be  uttered.  And  he  did  not  tell  you  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  The  tears  choked  me.  He  had 
told  it  so  simply,  yet  with  a  depth  which  could  not  be 
fathomed.  I  stretched  out  my  hand  and  laid  it  upon 
his — he  had  had  a  sympathetic  listener. 

After  a  while  there  came  another  knock.  It  was  Sev- 
ern. He  carried  in  his  hand  a  bunch  of  red  roses.  He 
had  just  met  Hall,  he  said.  He  looked  at  me  curiously 
while  he  spoke,  asking  after  you  all  in  turn.  Griff  had 
meanwhile  vanished. 


131 


"  It  was  a  blow  straight  from  the  shoulder,"  he  said. 
"  It  knocked  me  out.  Why  didn't  you  wire  the  news  ? 
Not  very  cousinly,  Eleanor — to  say  nothing  of  Kenyon's 
remissness." 

"  We  had  no  time,"  I  answered  with  dignity. 

"  I  might  have  sent  you  a  fitting  send-off.  All  I  could 
do  was  to  get  you  these  roses — you  used  to  resemble 
them.  But,  confound  it !  I  can't  offer  them  to  you  now." 

"  Why  not  ?"  I  asked,  quivering  with  fear. 

"  Consult  your  mirror,"  he  growled. 

When  Hall  came  in  I  made  some  excuse  and  went  into 
the  next  room.  Presently  I  heard  their  voices  somewhat 
raised. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  that  girl  ?"  I  heard  Severn 
say,  in  a  menacing  tone. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Hall  responded,  with  a  mixt- 
ure of  surprise  and  haughtiness. 

"  I  mean,"  retorted  Severn,  "  that  when  last  I  knew 
her  she  was  a  charming,  high-spirited  young  girl.  She 
is  now,  after  a  week's  marriage,  a  sad-faced  woman,  whose 
light-heartedness  seems  to  have  vanished  with  her  maiden- 
hood. I  warn  you,  Kenyon,  that  you  have  to  do  with  a 
high-bred  animal.  She  is  Philistine  to  the  backbone. 
You  cannot  break  her  at  once  into  Bohemianism." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  I  felt  a  bitter  smile 
creep  over  my  lips  at  Severn's  ignorance  of  all  details. 

Finally  Hall  spoke.     His  voice  was  cold  and  restrained. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  by 
what  right  you  presume  to  call  me  to  account.  Let  me 
beg  you  to  remember  that  I  want  no  interference  between 
me  and  my  wife." 

"Pardon  my  bluntness,"  returned  Severn,  in  a  queer 


132 


tone.  "  I  forgot  the  change  in  our  relationship  which 
your  benedictine  state  has  wrought." 

"My  dear  Scott,"  laughed  Hall,  in  easy  affectation, 
"  you  must  remember  that  a  man's  amour-propre  resents 
the  insinuation  that  he  has  been  derelict  in  his  attentions 
to  his  wife  of  a  week.  Your  growl  really  was  indelicate." 

"  Oh,  to  the  devil  with  your  evasions,"  was  the  snap- 
ping rejoinder.  "I  hate  palaver  between  friends.  But 
I  understand  that  perfect  frankness  is  incompatible  with 
a  married  man — there's  a  woman  behind  the  screen.  I 
respect  your  resentment,  but  for  Heaven's  sake,  Kenyon, 
bring  the  laugh  back  to  that  girl's  eyes !  You  can  do  it 
if  ever  man  could." 

A  moment  later  the  door  was  banged  to.  I  regretted 
that  I  had  no  rouge-pot ;  it  is  a  gay  mediator  between 
the  resentful  pride  of  a  man  and  his  wife  when  her 
pallor  might  bespeak  his  cruelty  or  neglect. 

He  came  in  shortly  after,  and  I  could  see  by  his  drawn 
brows  that  he  was  extremely  irritated.  It  is  not  his  way 
to  dissemble. 

"  Are  you  very  unhappy,  Eleanor  ?"  he  demanded,  with 
a  peremptoriness  which  may  have  been  meant  for  con- 
sideration of  my  welfare,  but  which  held  no  trace  of  ten- 
derness. He  eyed  me  sternly.  Probably  for  the  first 
time  since  our  marriage  my  appearance  meant  something 
to  him.  If  I  had  not  had  myself  under  guard  I  would 
have  blushed  with  trepidation.  As  it  was  I  answered, 
flippantly : 

"  Happiness  is  relative.  Once,  when  I  was  a  young 
girl,  I  was  reading  Balzac's  Lily  of  the  Valley,  and  crying 
over  it  as  though  my  heart  were  breaking.  My  sister 
Edith  asked  me  why  I  read  a  book  which  could  make 


133 


me  so  sad.  I  answered  that  I  was  having  a  splendid 
time." 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  did  not  quite  comprehend. 

"  I  am  not  clever  enough  to  catch  the  analogy,"  he 
returned,  with  a  shrug,  as  if  my  words  had  come  from  a 
silly  school-girl.  "  But  if  there  is  anything  you  wish  or 
that  I  can  do  for  you,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me.  We 
may  as  well  be  frank  with  each  other.  You  will,  of 
course,  have  to  put  up  with  my  society  to  some  extent, 
more  as  a  matter  of  prudence  than  of  choice — on  your 
part.  I  have  endeavored  not  to  bore  you  unnecessarily. 
But  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you  more  com- 
fortable, don't  hesitate  to  tell  me.  Else  where's  our 
pact  of  bon camaraderie?"  He  took  both  my  hands  with 
a  pale  smile  of  persuasion ;  he  was  nerving  himself  to 
his  duty.  At  that  moment  my  poverty  almost  made  me 
turn  sick.  Never  had  he  seemed  more  cold  and  distant 
than  when  he  stood  so  close  and  held  my  hands. 

"  What  are  the  considerations  of  the  pact  ?"  I  asked, 
nonchalantly,  as  I  withdrew  my  hands  and  he  seated 
himself  astride  a  chair.  "  We  have  not  made  them  clear, 
I  think.  Better  let  me  know  to  what  I  have  bound  my- 
self before  I  put  the  ocean  between  myself  and  a  chance 
of  retraction.  There  might  be  some  impossibilities  among 
them  for  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  exact  impossibilities,"  he  re- 
sponded. "But  it  would  make  your  enforced  position 
more  congenial,  I  think,  if  you  would  try  to  regard  me 
as  a  brother.  Do  you  think  you  could  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  the  relationship  entails.  I  never 
had  a  brother." 

"  Nor  I  a  sister.     But  I  can  readily  imagine  that  all  it 


134 


requires  is  perfect  frankness,  friendly  confidence,  favors 
asked  and  given  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  all  done  with 
a  spirit  of  toleration  and  good-will.  Do  you  think  you 
could  manage  it  ?" 

"  It  may  be  worth  trying." 

"  I  think  so.  Neither  of  us  is  blind  to  the  fact  that 
the  great  sentiment  did  not  make  the  tie ;  and  neither 
of  us  expects  the  extravagances  of  the  feeling.  We  can 
get  along  in  a  practical,  pleasant  fashion,  I  believe,  if  we 
trust  each  other.  I  know  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask, 
but  I  hope  no  former  attachment  is  making  this  life  bit- 
ter for  you.  I  can  thoroughly  appreciate  its  strain  upon 
your  whole  being,  but  without  the  past  to  hold  you  I 
think  you  will  not  find  the  present  formidable." 

"And  you?"  I  asked.  "How  are  you  going  to  meet 
it?" 

"  With  you,"  he  said,  with  a  courteous  inclination  and 
a  smile  from  the  lips.  "And  now  let  me  explain  my 
standing  to  you.  I  am  not  a  rich  man,  but  my  income 
will  easily  provide  our  creature  comforts  in  a  civilized 
way.  It  is  somewhere  between  six  and  seven  hundred 
a  month  without  that  which  comes  in  from  my  work. 
Not  a  princely  fortune,  but  an  assured  one.  So  start  in, 
Eleanor,  and  make  out  a  list  of  wants." 

"  There  is  nothing,"  I  replied,  feeling  hot  and  un- 
comfortable. 

"  That  is  not  fair,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "  Why,  Eleanor, 
just  forget  what  is  past,  and  come  down  to  an  easy-going, 
common-sensible  view  of  the  present.  Are  you  not  my 
wife  ?  There,  don't  look  so  defiant.  Perhaps  I  can  find 
another  way  to  make  you  get  what  you  want." 

I  found  a  packet  of  money  on  niy  table  that  evening. 


135 


But  I  cannot  take  his  money.     I  want  Geoffrey  to  send 
my  allowance  regularly  to  our  London  address. 

Griff  was  waiting  for  us  on  board.  He  is  always  with 
us.  At  sight  of  the  stunted  little  figure  and  ugly,  peace- 
ful face  a  feeling  of  calm  possessed  me,  and  not  only 
calm,  but  comfort  and  respectability  ;  do  you  know  what 
I  mean  ?  It  was  as  if  his  presence  made  my  position 
less  false,  as  if  a  chaperon  had  been  provided,  and  all 
was  more  proper  and  as  it  should  be.  In  my  cabin  was 
a  huge  bunch  of  chrysanthemums  and  some  dainties 
which  Severn  had  sent.  There  were  many  comforts  in 
the  way  of  cushions  and  rugs  which  made  me  very  un- 
comfortable, a  feeling  with  which  I  am  battling  and 
bravely  trying  to  overcome. 

Griff  seems  always  near  me.  I  do  not  know  whether 
the  charge  was  self-appointed  or  whether  Hall  suggested 
it.  I  only  know  that  with  -him  within  reach  I  could  go 
to  sleep  as  fearlessly  on  deck  as  in  the  privacy  of  my 
own  cabin.  Yet  he  is  a  man  scarcely  older  than  I. 
There  are  souls  so  pure  that  they  clarify  the  air  about 
them,  and  keep  those  within  their  reach  out  of  all  harm. 
Hall  has  been  busy  with  some  writing  which  he  prefers 
doing  below ;  the  sea,  he  says,  distracts  him.  Still,  I 
ought  not  to  be  lonesome,  if  to  be  surrounded  by  friendly- 
inclined  people  is  to  be  accounted  an  antidote.  There 
are  some  charming  English  people,  a  handsome  girl  and 
her  brother,  who  seem  to  have  formed  an  agreement 
with  each  other  that  I  am  never  to  be  left  alone.  The 
girl  told  me  that  she  took  my  "husband "  to  be  a  brother; 
she  thought  there  was  a  striking  resemblance  between 
us.  "  But,  then,"  she  added,  naively,  "  husbands  and 
wives  often  grow  to  look  alike ;  sitting  opposite  each 


136 


other  so  often  makes  them  adopt  each  other's  facial  ex- 
pressions, just  as  people  often  in  converse  assimilate 
each  other's  opinions."  There  is  a  young  medical  student 
en  route  for  Germany,  an  attache  of  the  French  legation, 
and  a  widow  with  two  daughters  about  Grace's  and  Edith's 
age.  When  I  look  at  them  I  say  to  myself,  "  Grace,"  or 
"  Edith."  I  never  knew  before  what  pretty  names  they  are. 

We  were  approached,  as  we  stepped  on  board,  by  a 
Mr.  Talford.  He  is  a  distinguished -looking  man  of 
about  forty,  a  member  of  Hall's  club,  to  whom  I  was  in- 
troduced. I  did  not  like  him  at  the  first  glance  ;  I  think 
his  regard  would  bring  a  blush  of  resentment  to  the  face 
of  any  woman.  He  is  a  brilliant  talker,  in  a  satirical, 
sceptical  way — has  rather  courtly  manners.  I  always 
turned  to  look  for  Griff  when  he  drew  near.  He  has 
kept  his  distance,  however,  for  the  last  few  days.  The 
English  girl  had  just  gone  below  one  morning  and  I  had 
reopened  my  Shelley,  when  this  Talford  made  his  way 
over  to  me,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  had  just  va- 
cated. I  glanced  around  for  Griff ;  he  was  not  in  sight. 
He  had  possibly  gone  in  to  do  some  copying  for  Hall.  I 
assumed  the  defensive  at  once. 

"  Shelley  ?"  he  said,  taking  the  book  from  me.  "  Will 
you  allow  me  to  divine  the  bit  that  has  charmed  you 
most  of  late  ?" 

"  You  are  not  a  mind -reader,  I  hope,"  I  said  as  pleas- 
antly as  I  could,  looking  beyond  him  to  the  water. 

"  Only  sympathetic,"  he  replied  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
turned  the  pages.  I  could  feel  my  heart  flutter  omi- 
nously, but  I  thought  it  best  not  to  answer.  Presently  he 
was  reading,  in  a  gentle,  significant  tone.  You  know  the 
lines,  perhaps : 


137 

"I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  that  hearts  lift  above 

And  the  heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow?" 

I  had  turned  my  face  as  far  from  his  view  as  possi- 
ble. 

"  There  comes  a  void,  a  desire  like  that  to  every  one 
once  in  a  lifetime,"  he  went  on,  easily.  "  The  humility 
does  not  last  long,  however.  It  is  only  distance,  the  un- 
known, which  exalts  the  vision.  The  nearer  we  get  to 
the  stars  we  lose  the  sparkle  in  viewing  the  component 
parts  which  made  the  glow.  Knowledge  is  disappoint- 
ing." 

"Not  if  you  are  clever  enough  to  catch  the  comical 
side,"  I  murmured. 

"  The  bathos  of  pathos,  do  you  mean  ?  It's  the  one 
side  I  see.  But  I  believe  it  has  entirely  escaped  you. 
After  the  manner  of  women,  you  conceive  the  melo- 
drama of  life  to  be  a  serious  tragedy,  over  which  you  find 
it  impossible  to  smile.  And  yet  that,  too,  will  pass." 

"  What  ?"  I  asked,  staring  stonily  at  him. 

"Your  disappointment.  Women  —  young  women — 
expect  too  much ;  they  are  grieved  when  their  imagina- 
tion does  not  materialize,  and  they  either  enjoy  the  un- 
happiness  or  consider  it  frivolous  to  relieve  themselves. 
Let  me  tell  you,  Mrs.  Kenyon,  when  a  man  finds  himself 
neglected  in  one  quarter  he  will  set  about  to  find  the 
means  to  fill  in  the  chink.  And  though  you  must  re- 
member that  art  is  a  jealous  mistress,  I  think  it  is  ex- 


138 


disable  and  philosophical  if  one  were  to  seek  some — 
diversion  for  one's  self." 

"  When  I  am  seeking  diversion,"  I  said,  slowly,  "  I'll 
call  upon  you  for  a  plan,  Mr.  Talford.  But  at  present 
I  do  not  need  your  assistance." 

He  laughed  lightly  and  leaned  forward.  "  Is  that 
meant  for  a  dismissal  ?"  he  said.  "  Don't  be  rash.  One 
suddenly  needs  a  knight  sometimes." 

It  was  too  much  !  I  could  feel  myself  turning  white. 
At  that  moment  Hall's  head  appeared  above  the  com- 
panion-way. With  a  gravely  ironical  bow  Talford  turned 
away.  Hall,  catching  sight  of  me,  came  across.  He 
looked  at  me  curiously,  and  interposed  his  figure  be- 
tween me  and  the  passengers  moving  about. 

"  What  is  it,  Eleanor  ?"  he  asked.     "  Are  you  ill  ?" 

u  No,"  I  managed  to  answer ;  "  I  have  been  insulted, 
that's  all." 

His  face  turned  red. 

"Talford?"  he  questioned.  I  pressed  my  lips  hard. 
I  was  shaking  miserably. 

"  What  did  he  say,  Eleanor?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing  much,  I  suppose,"  I  almost 
sobbed.  "  He  was  only  offering  his  sympathy  for — for 
my  *  being  alone.'  " 

His  hand  went  quickly  to  my  shoulder  and  rested 
there. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  deep  earnestness.  "  It  was 
my  fault.  I  brought  it  upon  you.  But  I'll  show  the 
fellow  that  he  has  some  one  to  answer  to !" 

"  No,  no,"  I  protested,  hastily.  "  Don't  say  any- 
thing to  him.  He  is  not  worth  noticing — and  I  am  all 
right." 


139 


Hall's  writing  has  been  neglected  since  then.  And 
still  I  am  sorry  he  saw.  One  of  ray  most  passionate 
desires  is  not  to  hamper  him  in  any  way. 

Last  night  they  decided  to  give  a  dance.  The  medical 
student  has  musical  fingers,  and  promised  to  play  until 
we  grew  tired.  Hall  excused  himself  from  attending,  as 
he  had  some  letters  to  write  anent  our  landing  to-mor- 
row. The  Townshends — the  English  people — begged  me 
to  come  in  notwithstanding,  and  I  went.  The  salon 
looked  bright  and  pretty — everybody  seemed  gay  and 
happy.  At  the  first  chords  of  the  waltz  I  could  scarcely 
keep  the  tears  from  my  eyes.  When  one  is  unhappy 
the  gayest  music  is  sad.  But  I  danced.  I  was  always 
accounted  a  good  dancer  —  my  brains  in  my  toes;  a 
good  place  to  keep  them  in  a  ball-room.  I  could  feel 
Talford's  eyes  upon  me  from  the  first.  He  soon  be- 
gan to  annoy  me,  and  finally  I  slipped  out  of  the  door- 
way. I  was  feverish  and  excited.  The  dancing  had  af- 
fected me  like  wine. 

Without  a  thought  I  hurried  to  Hall's  cabin  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  He  opened  it  immediately. 

"  You !  That's  right ;  come  in,"  he  said,  looking 
surprised  as  he  held  the  door  open.  I  stepped  quickly 
past  him,  and  he  shut  the  door. 

"  Grown  tired  already  ?"  he  asked,  drawing  up  the 
chair  for  me  and  seating  himself  on  the  bed.  He  looked 
pale  and  weary,  and  my  heart  was  filled  with  a  yearning 
tenderness. 

"  No ;  but  I  thought  you  must  be,"  I  answered,  wist- 
fully. "  Can't  you  leave  your  writing  for  a  while  and 
come  in  and  dance  ?  Miss  Townshend  is  so  anxious  to 
measure  steps  with  you." 


140 


He  smiled  quietly  as  he  leaned  slightly  back  against 
the  pillow.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I'd  rather  talk  than 
dance." 

I  glanced  at  his  writing  materials,  longing  to  stay,  yet 
hesitating  oddly. 

"  I  finished  some  time  ago,"  he  said.  "  The  music 
has  disturbed  me  too  much."  As  he  spoke  the  melody 
changed.  The  musicians  had  begun  that  minuet  Grace 
played  the  first  time  I  met  Hall  Kenyon  to  know  him. 
I  started  and  looked  toward  him;  strangely  enough, his 
smile  showed  that  he  remembered,  too.  The  old  mood 
took  possession  of  me.  I  made  him  a  deep  courtesy, 
laughing  as  I  did  so.  Once  started,  I  entered  into  it 
with  my  old-time  nonsense.  By  a  curious  coincidence, 
I  had  on  the  same  pale  gray  gown.  As  I  swayed  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  narrow  space  I  could  feel  my 
hair  loosening  from  the  gold  comb  with  which  I  had 
loosely  gathered.it  up.  Suddenly,  just  as  I  neared  him, 
it  tumbled  about  me,  and  I  stopped  on  the  instant,  put- 
ting up  my  hand  to  gather  it  together. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  staying  me,  and  reaching  out  hts 
hand  towards  it.  "  What  beautiful  hair  you  have !" 
He  was  standing  close  beside  me,  and  I  made  to  draw 
back ;  but  his  hand  still  held  the  mass  of  loosened  hair, 
and  at  my  movement  he  drew  my  head  to  him — and 
kissed  me.  It  was  the  first  time  my  husband's  lips  had 
touched  mine,  and  I  sprang  back  as  though  he  had  of- 
fered me  an  insult.  So  might  he  have  kissed  a  Nautch 
girl — anybody. 

"  How  dare  you  !"  I  cried,  shrinking  against  the  panels 
as  far  as  possible  from  his  reach.  The  flush  of  admira- 
tion still  lit  his  eyes  as  he  answered : 


141 


"  Ah,  Eleanor,  you  were  too  beautiful  just  now  !  Ex- 
cuse the  impulse  on  that  plea,"  he  demurred. 

"  Well,  don't  do  it  again,"  I  said,  not  meeting  his 
eyes,  and  rubbing  my  lips  with  my  handkerchief,  as  a 
child  shows  its  distaste  for  the  same  unasked  token. 

Seeing  that  I  was  more  than  indignant,  he  added,  "  I 
shall  try  to  remember."  He  handed  me  my  comb 
deferentially.  I  knotted  up  my  hair,  wished  him  good- 
night, and  left  him. 

I  was  trembling  violently  when  I  reached  my  cabin.  I 
felt  so  common — so  wanton,  Constance  ! 

I  had  meant  to  attract  him.  But  I  did  not  know 
what  I  was  doing  till  I  had  achieved  the  result.  I 
wished  I  were  home  with  you,  safe  in  my  little  white 
bed.  Oh,  Constance,  angel,  why  am  I  not  like  you? 
No  one  would  dare  make  you  feel  as  I  felt  then.  He 
does  not  understand,  of  course.  He  does  not  know 
that  I  want  something  higher  than  mere  beauty-homage. 
We  get  what  we  deserve.  Help  me  to  deserve  some- 
thing better.  I  am  going  to  try.  I  thought  it  all  out 
last  night.  I  have  found  a  model.  Do  you  mind  much, 
dear?  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  like  you.  I  am  going 
to  lock  the  door  upon  my  selfish,  passionate  past,  and 
begin  over  again.  Pray  for  me. 

ELEANOR. 


CHAPTER   XII 

PARIS,  September  — ,  18—. 

AGAIN  I  take  up  my  self-centred  diary,  this  egoistic 
record  of  a  heart  which  asks  for  no  answer — only  for  a 
hearing.  My  postal-cards  and  letters  have  been  for  all ; 
this  is  for  you  and  myself  alone,  for  you  have  become 
as  my  confessor. 

I  jotted  all  the  observations  of  our  travelling  in  those 
other  communications;  in  this  —  to  you — I  need  speak 
only  of  the  incidents  that  befell  me  in  these  far-away 
lands,  where  the  surroundings  were  but  shadows  to  me, 
where  the  only  reality  was  the  man  beside  me.  It  is  of 
these  memories,  which  would  have  been  as  dreams  but 
for  his  presence,  of  which  I  tell  you. 

To-day  I  have  little  recollection  of  the  beauties  and 
wonders  of  museums,  galleries,  and  cathedrals,  or  even  of 
the  great  Abbey  ;  small  memory  of  movement  from  place 
to  place  in  the  London  immensity ;  I  only  recall  an  im- 
pression of  grandeur  and  strangeness,  and  always  that 
Hall  has  walked  beside  me. 

It  was  afterwards,  when  we  were  loitering  through  the 
Surrey  country  and  had  settled  down  in  a  Kentish  vil- 
lage, that  I  began  to  realize  my  entity  and  know  that  this 
was  my — life !  But  it  was  a  life  so  different  from  the 
past  that  I  seemed  to  have  gone  into  another  existence 
— a  period  of  peace  as  after  death,  before  which  all  had 
been  delirium.  Perhaps  I  was  emotionally  weary,  for 


143 


nothing  soothed  me  more  than  the  sound  of  the  chil- 
dren's voices — the  two  little  maids  of  the  kindly  English 
gentlewoman  with  whom  we  had  taken  rooms.  One  of 
them  has  a  bird  -  voice  just  like  our  Nan's ;  when  she 
talks  and  I  close  my  eyes,  I  can  see  a  little  American  girl 
with —  Do  you  know,  these  little  ones  grew  to  like  me  ! 
I  did  not  think  I  cared  much  for  children,  but  I  am  glad  I 
do ;  their  little  hands  and  caresses  fill  out  the  hollows  of 
both  cheek  and  heart.  I  am  gladder  still  that  they  can 
love  me.  Child-love  is  so  true ;  it  is  all  spontaneity,  a 
spontaneity  which  is  seldom  misled ;  there  must  be 
something  good  in  me  if  children  turn  to  me.  But  I 
have  never  seen  a  man  more  passionately  fond  of  chil- 
dren than  is  Hall ;  they  knew  it,  and  were  as  happy  as 
he  when  with  him.  Those  were  good  days. 

Passion  is  love's  vanity.  I  am  endeavoring  to  drop  it ; 
it  wants  too  much  and  gets  too  little.  I  think  we  both 
grew  gentler  in  the  quiet  English  country.  We  had 
some  walks  and  talks,  in  which  we  each  showed  the  other 
some  of  self,  without  the  fever  and  turmoil  of  emotions. 
We  put  our  quicker,  warmer  beings  behind  us,  and  met 
as  kindly  friends.  It  was  a  difficult  task  at  first,  Con- 
stance, this  seeming ;  but  under  it  I  felt  myself  growing 
broader  and  more  self-respecting.  In  the  country  time 
lounges,  and  our  pulses  beat  more  slowly  in  consequence. 

But  I  knew  it  could  not  last ;  I  felt  him  growing  rest- 
ive. One  morning  I  heard  him  among  the  trees  with  the 
children  ;  they  were  shouting  merrily,  and,  as  his  deeper 
tones  reached  me,  I  was  glad  to  feel  that  I  could  listen 
so  calmly.  Presently  I  saw  him  making  his  way  towards 
me  across  the  sunlit  grass,  his  hat  pushed  from  his  brow, 
his  face  warmly  flushed — such  a  picture  of  vigorous  man- 


144 


hood  as  one  seldom  sees  in  life.  He  seated  himself  on 
the  railing  of  the  porch  where  I  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the 
rose-trellises,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  slightly  quizzical, 
slightly  hesitating  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"  Something  new  in  view  ?"  I  asked,  returning  the 
smile.  I  had  overcome  much  of  my  self-conscious  awk- 
wardness in  his  presence,  and  our  conversations  had 
fewer  angles  and  empty  spaces. 

He  laughed  lightly  in  turn.  "  Is  my  face  placarded  ?" 
he  questioned.  "  You  read  me  very  accurately." 

"  It  is  not  ambiguous  to  me,"  I  returned.  "  You  are 
contemplating  a  move." 

"  Eight.  I  felt  rather  paralyzed  a  few  minutes  ago. 
What  do  you  say  to  Paris  ?  Does  the  shock  upset  you  ?" 

I  laughed  with  him.  "  No.  When  do  you  wish  to 
start — this  evening  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  bright  satisfaction.  "  Could 
you  get  ready  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,"  he  cried,  bringing  his  hand 
heartily  down  upon  my  shoulder.  I  winced  under  the 
spirit,  not  the  manner,  of  his  approval.  "  That  is  where 
your  congeniality  comes  in,  Eleanor ;  you  don't  find  it 
necessary  to  protest  and  be  coaxed  in  order  to  give  your 
final  agreement  more  value,  as  most  women  do  in  every 
trivial  affair.  You  practise  a  splendid  nerve  economy." 

"And  then  it  flatters  your  good  judgment.  I  have 
merely  learned  to  hurry  noiselessly." 

He  gave  me  a  quick  look,  as  though  reminded  of  some- 
thing. "  Can  I  help  you  with  your  packing?"  he  asked. 
"  You  look  so  leisurely,  sitting  there  on  that  settee.  I 
feel  as  though  you  needed  pushing." 


145 


"  I  have  plenty  of  time  ;  ray  belongings  are  easily  put 
together.  It  is  only  yours  that  are  scattered  all  over  the 
place.  You  had  better  begin  to  gather  them  up." 

"  I  intend  mating  a  holocaust  of  most  of  my  papers  ; 
Griff  is  sorting  them  now.  Want  to  witness  the  sacrifi- 
cial flames?" 

I  followed  him  into  the  little  sitting-room,  where  a 
small  wood-fire  was  burning.  Griff  had  arranged  several 
piles  of  MSS.  upon  the  table.  Presently  he  was  passing 
them,  one  at  a  time,  to  Hall,  with  a  word  of  explanation 
concerning  their  material.  Most  of  them  the  latter  tossed 
carelessly  into  the  fire,  watching  them  burn  and  blacken, 
with  a  comment  of  indifference  or  depreciation.  Others 
he  hesitated  over  and  consigned  to  the  folding-desk,  alleg- 
ing that  he  might  "  work  them  up  "  for  posterity  or — the 
edification  of  his  library  drawer.  When  near  the  end 
Griff  passed  him  a  rather  bulky  package.  As  Hall  took 
it  from  him,  his  face  and  figure  lost  their  easy  complai- 
sance at  once. 

"  That  is  the  story  you  were  engaged  upon  while  in  the 
West,"  Griff  explained,  mistaking  his  silence  for  confu- 
sion of  memory. 

I  looked  towards  him  with  a  start.  He  had  drawn 
nearer  the  fire  with  the  manuscript,  and  I  moved  swiftly 
to  his  side. 

"  Is  that  that  novel  ?"  I  asked,  in  impulsive  bravery. 

"  Yes.     What  do  you  know  about  it  ?" 

"  Why,  you  read  the  end  in  my  presence  ;  the  begin- 
ning was — " 

"  Yes,  yes.  It's  worth  nothing  now.  It  is  fit  for  ob- 
literation. Just  move  a  little,  please." 

"Wait !  don't !"  I  exclaimed,  grasping  his  arm.  "Put 
10 


146 


it  with  the  others.  You  will  read  it  over  some  day  when 
you  will  be  able  to  acknowledge  its  power." 

"  Never  is  far  away.     Take  your  hand  off,  Eleanor." 

"  No,  I  shall  not.  You  must  not  do  it !"  I  cried,  with 
sudden  vehemence,  keeping  a  tight  hold  on  the  papers. 
"  I  tell  you  it  is  too  good  to  be  lost.  I  recall  it  per- 
fectly. Some  day  you  will  thank  me  for  having  saved  it." 

"  You  tempt  me  to  rudeness,"  he  said,  with  restrained 
annoyance.  "  This  thing  is  especially  hateful  to  me.  I 
don't  want  to  see  it  again.  Loosen  your  fingers,  Eleanor." 

"  Please  give  it  to  me"  I  entreated,  in  compromise, 
steadily  meeting  his  angry  eyes.  "  You  shall  never  be 
annoyed  by  sight  of  it.  But  I  beg  it  of  you.  It  is  the 
first  favor  I  have  asked  you." 

The  blood  rose  curiously  to  his  face,  which  has  never 
regained  its  warm  glow  ;  he  hesitated  a  second,  and  then 
let  go.  "  Well,  if  it  will  make  you  happy,"  he  observed, 
with  cynical  weariness,  "  take  it." 

I  thanked  him  quietly,  and  went  away  with  it.  There 
is"  an  old  folk-lore  tale  of  a  house  which  was  built  from 
the  pinnacle  downward  —  you  know,  or  can  imagine,  its 
length  of  endurance.  I  am  doing  better — I  took  for  a 
foundation  a  bundle  of  papers. 

A  week  later  we  arrived  in  Paris,  travelling,  as  you 
know,  down  through  Normandy  and  Brittany.  As  we 
approached  the  city  I  could  feel  the  delirium  of  expecta- 
tion attacking  my  pulses.  After  a  day  here  I  had  left 
the  long  peace  of  the  country  and  the  sweet  breath  of 
the  North  far  behind  me. 

Paris  holds  a  strange  incident  for  me.  I  have  en- 
deavored to  lead  up  to  it  gradually.  I  wanted  you  to 
know  that  under  different  circumstances  and  surround- 


147 


ings  our  characters  work  out  different  histories.  In  Paris 
life  knows  few  deep  pauses.  To  withdraw  into  one's  self 
would  be  to  miss  part  of  the  spectacle  which  provides 
the  Parisian  with  his  inexhaustible  esprit.  We  caught  up 
with  the  pace.  Hall  ran  across  some  old  artist  and  liter- 
ary friends,  and  is  acquainted  with  our  American  Minis- 
ter ;  they  all  seemed  anxious  to  honor  him  and  his  wife. 
This  constant  social  ferment  must  be  what  keeps  Paris 
laughing  —  aloud;  she  is  a  coquette  who  ridicules  the 
trace  of  tears. 

I  cannot  explain  how  it  happened,  but  we  had  been 
here  two  weeks  before  we  put  foot  into  the  Louvre.  Ah, 
Constance,  it  is  such  a  strange  thing  that  I  must  relate 
to  you !  I  had  thought — had  hoped —  Love,  love,  you 
know  him  better;  you  will  understand,  perhaps,  that  it 
could  not  have  been  otherwise — for  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  satisfy  a  long-felt  curiosity,"  I  told 
him,  as  we  sauntered  on,  "  in  seeing  the  Lady  of  Milo. 
From  the  casts  and  photographs  I  have  seen  I  have  never 
fully  appreciated,  or  even  understood,  her.  She  has  al- 
ways been  a  mystery  to  me — she  seems  too  grave  for 
love.  Heine's  ecstasy  over  the  original  is  incomprehen- 
sible to  me  as  yet.  But  his  poem  portrays  the  sublime 
passion  with  which  she  evidently  inspired  him." 

"  Which  poem  ?"  he  asked,  with  interest. 

"  Don't  you  know  it  ?  I  think  I  can  repeat  a  part  of 
it.  In  reverting  to  the  last  time  he  looked  at  her  he 
said  :  *  Though  she  looked  down  on  me  with  compassion, 
it  was  compassion  without  comfort,  as  though  she  would 
say,  "  Seest  thou  not  that  I  have  no  arms,  and  so  cannot 
give  thee  help  ?"  Even  with  arms  a  woman  may  be  help- 
less as— '" 


148 


"  Yes,"  lie  interrupted,  roughly,  "  as  a  goddess  whose 
feet  rest  on  a  pedestal.     What  was  that  poem  ?" 
"  It  is  an  ode.     I  recall  these  lines : 

"40  perfect  form  of  perfect  woman,  clad 

In  that  sweet  light  not  born  of  earth,  but  drawn 
From  those  high  realms  that  bend  above  the  gods, 
Whose  sun  has  lent  the  softest  of  its  light 
To  cling  forever  round  this  splendid  form 
That  cares  not  for  our  worship,  nor  the  love 
Of  pilgrims  drawn  by  unseen  links  to  lay 
Their  highest  love — highest,  since  no  desire 
Can  ever  mingle  with  it — at  thy  feet ! 
Thou  wert  to  me  as  sunshine  to  the  day, 
The  presence  by  whose  side  I  knelt,  and  saw 
The  shadowy  curtains  of  the  land  of  dreams 
Lift,  as  a  morning  mist  takes  to  the  hills, 
And  thine  the  voice  that,  soft  as  April  rain, 
Bade  me  rise  up  and  enter !  .  .  . 
But  thou  who  standest  with  no  arms  to  clasp 
Thy  worshipper,  nor  tears  to  dim  the  light 
In  those  pure  eyes  of  thine !  how  can  I  say 
Farewell — and  pass  from  thee  ?' 

Would  you  call  it  an  exaggeration?"  I  asked,  after  a 
pause,  as  he  did  not  speak. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  shortly.  And  then  abruptly  added, 
as  though  wishing  to  forget  the  subject,  "  You  interpret 
poetry  as  you  sing — intensely.  Your  voice  grew  as  deep- 
ly sad  over  those  closing  lines  as  though  you  had  felt 
such  a  farewell." 

"  Oh,"  I  laughed,  easily,  "  haven't  you  suspected  that 
I  was  meant  for  an  actress  ?"  He  looked  at  me  curious- 
ly as  we  passed  in. 

When  we  stood  before  her  in  the  long  gallery  I  felt  a 


149 


singular  awe.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  remained  there 
in  silent  contemplation.  But  I  know  now  the  meaning  of 
her  majesty ;  she  is  Love  that  is  sure  of  itself,  thought- 
ful without  passion  —  deathless  !  Not  that  little  Love 
which  desires  return,  but  that  greater  Love  which  is  self- 
sufficing. 

I  was  about  to  turn  to  him  when  something,  a  flicker- 
ing sunbeam  upon  the  sculptured  hair,  arrested  me.  I 
felt  a  surprised  start  of  recognition.  In  a  moment  the 
cold,  still  woman  was  no  longer  a  chiselled  idea.  Con- 
stance, it  was  you  ! 

I  cannot  explain  the  resemblance.  It  is  less  in  form 
and  feature  than  in  the  soul  pervading  it;  but  it  is 
there  unquestionably.  Quickly  the  thought  flashed 
through  me,  "  Has  he  seen  ?"  Was  the  statue  to  him  the 
embodiment  of  his  lost  love  ?  Ah,  the  old,  overwhelm- 
ing jealousy  had  seized  me  ! 

I  turned  to  look  at  him.  He  was  gone  !  Then  he  had 
felt  it !  You  had  come  before  him !  He  had  not  wished 
me  to  see  its  effect  upon  him.  I  walked  from  sculpture 
to  sculpture,  standing  still  before  each,  but  seeing  noth- 
ing. An  eager  voice  accosted  me.  Helen  Glynn  came  up 

with  beaming  eyes ;  she  is  studying  in  X 's  studio, 

you  know.  She  had  been  sketching,  and  had  just  caught 
sight  of  me.  I  wonder  what  she  thought  of  my  abstrac- 
tion. But  her  attendant  soon  came  along,  and  she  left, 
promising  to  visit  me. 

I  looked  around  for  Hall.  He  was  not  in  sight.  I 
felt  cold  and  uncomfortable  in  the  strange  crowd.  Per- 
haps an  hour  later  I  saw  Griff  making  his  way  toward 
me. 

"  We  have  become  separated,"  I  explained  to  him,  al- 


150 


most  with  a  cry  of  relief.  "Did  you  see  Hall  as  you 
came  along?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Kenyon.     Shall  we  go  home  now  ?" 

"  Why,  no ;  I  must  wait,"  I  said,  regarding  him  with 
wonder.  "  He  —  Hall  will  be  looking  for  me,  of 
course !" 

"  No,"  returned  the  boy,  earnestly ;  "  he  will  not  look 
for  you.  I  met  him  on  the  street  a  half-hour  ago.  I 
stopped  him.  He  told  me  not  to  deter  him.  He  said  he 
had  been  called  hastily  away.  He  did  not  look  well, 
by-the-bye." 

I  stood  still,  understanding  but  imperfectly.  My  pal- 
lor did  not  escape  Griff. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  Mrs.  Kenyon,"  he  said,  with 
a  reassuring  smile.  "  I  have  known  him  to  run  away 
like  this  before.  It  was  once  when  greatly  disturbed 
over  the  return  of  a  manuscript.  It  is  a  mood,  a  whim, 
which  he  allows  as  a  sort  of  hair-shirt  to  moderate  strong 
pain.  It's  part  of  his  temperament.  I  don't  know  what 
has  disturbed  him  to-day,  but  he'll  turn  up  all  right  soon. 
Shall  we  move  on  ?" 

His  words  gave  me  some  assurance,  and  I  went  out 
with  him.  He  is  like  a  great  silent  watch-dog.  We  reached 
home,  but  Hall  was  not  there,  nor  did  he  come.  Think, 
Constance !  Days  succeeded  days,  and  yet  he  did  not 
come !  The  days  grew  to  weeks.  Griff  told  me  to  be 
calm,  not  to  be  frightened,  or  I  should  have  been  crazed. 
In  fact,  I  think  I  was  very  quiet  and  gentle  in  my  bewil- 
derment and  fear.  Perhaps  I  caught  a  little  of  Griff's 
patience.  Griff  and  I  are  very  sympathetic,  and,  alike, 
we  make  little  noise,  and  sit  or  move  out  together  in 
perfect  understanding  and  unison. 


151 


Yet  I  received  no  word  from  Hall.  I  did  not  expect 
it.  Griff  gave  me  a  hint — kindly,  reassuringly.  Such  a 
flight  is  only  one  of  those  sharp  peculiarities,  untrained 
idiosyncrasies,  which  Hall's  solitary,  independent  life  of 
leisure  has  had  no  domination  to  uproot.  I  shall  grow 
used  to  them,  perhaps,  as  Griff  has ;  they  are  weaknesses, 
not  vices,  Constance.  As  such  they  do  not  make  me 
love  him  less.  "  I  tell  you,  absolutely,  he  will  turn  up, 
and  that  all  right,  soon,"  Griff  had  said,  and  I  clung  to 
his  words  as  to  an  oracle. 

And  then,  one  day,  as  I  sat  with  a  bit  of  sewing  in  my 
hand,  Hall  came  home  !  Will  you  understand  how  I  have 
changed  when  I  say  that  I  did  not  start,  that  I  could 
even  look  up  with  a  quiet  smile  into  his  face  ?  It  was 
worn  but  calm. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  I  said,  with  a  nod,  continuing  my 
sewing. 

He  came  and  stood  by  my  side,  silent  for  a  moment. 
He  struggled  to  say  something.  "Eleanor,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  his  hand  touched  mine.  I  did  not  repulse  it. 
Several  seconds  passed  before  he  went  on  in  a  self- 
angered  tone.  "  I've  been  a  brute,"  he  said.  "  I  can't 
ask  you  to  forgive  me  !  And — and — I  can't  explain  my- 
self." 

"  Then  don't  try,"  I  returned,  hastily,  looking  up.  "  It's 
all  right !" 

He  looked  at  me, as  though  scarcely  understanding 
me.  "  I  forgot  everything.  I  forgot — that  afternoon  !" 
he  went  on,  as  if  goaded  to  explain.  "  I  left  you  like  a 
madman !" 

"  No,"  I  remonstrated  ;  "  you  had  not  grown  used  to  a 
wife's  presence,  that  was  all." 


152 


"  It  can  never  happen  again,"  he  said.  "  I  lived  alone 
too  long,  Eleanor.  I  have  never  had  to  account  to  any 
one  for  my  actions.  I  am  egoist  to  the  bone.  Heaven 
help  you,  my  poor  girl,  with  such  a  protector !" 

I  laughed  softly  and  shook  my  head.  He  sat  down 
wearily.  I  continued  my  sewing.  The  restrained  ex- 
citement had  made  my  cheeks  burn  and  my  hands  fever- 
ish. I  could  feel  his  eyes  intently  resting  on  me  for  a 
long,  silent  time. 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  sew  before,"  he  said,  present- 
ly, leaning  back  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"  I  sometimes  do,"  I  returned,  without  looking  up. 

"  It  is  womanly  work,  and — pretty.  What  is  it  you  are 
working  over  so  industriously  ?" 

My  heart  began  to  flutter  rapidly.  His  voice,  so  long 
unheard,  possessed  a  gentle  inflection  which  was  almost 
yearning  in  its  weariness.  I  felt  myself  flush  as  I  looked 
up  with  a  shy  laugh.  "  Guess,"  I  said.  "  It  is  dread- 
fully prosaic." 

"  Is  it  ?     It  looks  like — a  stocking." 

"  I  am  darning.  Over  and  under,  and  in  and  out,  like 
life — half  on  top  and  half  underneath ;  but  patience  will 
fill  out  a  perfect  whole.  What  an  execrable  pun  !" 

He  came  to  my  side  and  looked  down  with  odd  inter- 
est. "  Let  me  see  it  closer.  Why,  this  is  a  sock  !  Mine  ?" 
he  asked,  flushing. 

"  I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  I  thought  you  would 
not  mind  the  bit  of  interference." 

He  put  it  back  into  my  hand  without  a  word.  It  seems 
a  foolish  thing  to  relate  to  you,  but  I  am  merely  telling 
you  the  records  of  my  heart — not  of  my  memory — and 
they  are  sometimes  very  trivial  to  a  second  person.  1 


153 


know  he  exaggerated  the  commonplace  Joanesque  domes- 
ticity out  of  all  proportion.  He  has  never  had  any  one 
to  do  for  him,  and  he  is  unusually  susceptible  to  the  small- 
est mark  of  interest. 

After  dining  that  night  we  went  to  the  comedie.  Just 
before  we  left  he  knocked  at  my  door. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  he  asked,  as  I  held  it  open ;  and  he 
walked  into  the  room.  "  Will  you  wear  these  violets  to- 
night, Eleanor  ?  It  is  my  favorite  flower,  and  they  will  be- 
come you." 

Perhaps  they  were  only  a  peace-offering,  but  I  almost 
cried  out  with  pleasure.  They  were  such  a  handful  of 
fragrance  and  joy  for  me. 

"  They  remind  me  of  home,"  I  said,  unsteadily,  while 
he  watched  me  tuck  them  into  my  corsage. 

The  next  day  he  asked  me  whether  I  cared  to  go  down 
to  Italy.  "  We  can  make  our  home  in  Rome  for  the 
winter,"  he  said.  "I  think  you  would  enjoy  it." 

He  said  "  home ;"  it  had  a  beautiful  sound.  I  shall 
write  to  you  from  there. 

ELEANOR. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NEW  YORK,  March  — ,  18—. 

NOT  Rome,  you  see,  dear  Constance.  I  promised  to 
write  next  from  there  ;  but  the  best  plans  are  only  prom- 
ises which  circumstances  must  sometimes  break  for  us. 
The  one  short  letter  I  dropped  you  all  before  quitting 
Venice  would  have  answered  for  every  one  of  our  loiter- 
ing stoppages  on  the  way  to  the  City  of  Memories.  I 
can  hear  Grace  complaining  of  the  meagreness  of  de- 
scription it  contained,  but  tell  her —  I  was  just  about  to 
anticipate  something.  I  must  proceed  more  quietly.  Do 
you  remember,  Constance,  how  we  used  to  laugh  over  the 
honeymoon  descriptions  some  of  our  girl-brides  used  to 
give?  "Perfect!"  "Glorious!"  "  Utterly  indescriba- 
ble !"  They  never  could  go  any  further  in  their  nai've 
admission.  Ask  Grace  to  be  as  lenient  to  my  discrep- 
ancy as  we  used  to  be  to  theirs. 

We  had  been  only  a  week  in  Rome  when  Hall  received 
news  of  Severn's  illness.  It  seemed  to  draw  him  up 
sharply.  He  grew  grave,  almost  taciturn,  on  the  instant, 
and  I  could  feel  the  disturbance  it  occasioned  him,  for 
the  mood  did  not  wear  off.  He  was  quiet,  abstracted,  and 
slightly  nervous  all  through  that  day,  and  the  next  he  ad- 
mitted his  concern. 

"  I  think  I  shall  send  Griff  on  to  him,"  he  said,  pausing 
in  his  march  up  and  down  the  room  in  the  evening.  "  He 
will  at  least  then  have  some  one  other  than  paid  attend- 
ants beside  him.  Eleanor?" 


155 


"Yes?" 

He  glanced  at  me  swiftly,  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  ab- 
ruptly away.  "  No,  nothing,"  he  returned,  shortly,  con- 
tinuing his  walk. 

"  Did  you  —  you  want  to  go  yourself,  Hall  ?"  I 
asked,  throwing  my  book  aside  and  looking  at  him  ex- 
pectantly. 

He  flushed ;  but  you  know  his  candor.  "  I  suppose 
it  is  another  of  my  idiotic  ideas,"  he  confessed ;  "  but 
you  have  guessed  it,  Eleanor.  However,  I  have  no  in- 
tention of  gratifying  it." 

"  Why  not  3" 

"  We  are  settled  here  for  the  winter." 

"  But  we  are  not — married  to  the  place,  as  nurse  used 
to  say." 

"  That  is  true,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "  But, 
though  we  are  married  to  each  other,  I  have  no  desire 
to  make  your  life  a  series  of  jumps." 

I  laughed  merrily.  "  You  could  leave  me,"  I  suggested, 
after  a  pause. 

He  stood  still,  and  turned  upon  me  quickly.  "  Do 
you  mean  that  ?"  he  demanded,  quite  as  quietly  as  I  had 
spoken.  He  seated  himself  upon  the  window-sill  near 
which  he  stood.  He  was  perfectly  still  as  he  awaited 
my  answer. 

"  WThy,  yes,"  I  answered,  somewhat  uncertainly,  though 
I  could  go  no  further  in  my  equivocation. 

"  Oh  !"  That  was  all  the  comment  vouchsafed.  He 
looked  straight  ahead  for  several  seconds  before  he  add- 
ed, simply,  "  You  know  I  would  not  go  without  you." 

"  Then  we  could  go  together,"  I  returned,  lightly. 
"After  all,  you  know  Severn  is  my  cousin." 


156 


"  Don't  give  in  to  me  so  easily,  Eleanor,"  he  enjoined, 
seriously,  as  he  met  my  eyes. 

"  In  the  struggle  for  existence,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  the 
weaker  always  goes  to  the  wall." 

"  Am  I  such  a  brutal  tyrant  ?" 

"  Unconsciously  —  yes,"  I  laughed.  "  However,  in 
this  instance  my  will  does  not  suffer  complete  extinction. 
New  York  is — " 

"  Well  ?"  he  urged. 

"  I  have  quite  finished." 

"  No  ;  what  were  you  going  to  say  ?  *  New  York  is' — 
what  ?" 

But  I  had  no  intention  of  completing  my  impetuous 
sentence,  and  our  eyes  flashed  as  they  met ;  but  he  let 
the  question  go.  Two  days  later,  as  we  cabled  you,  we 
left  for  New  York. 

And  here  we  have  been  domiciled  in  New  York  with 
Severn,  in  this  beautiful  apartment-house,  for  the  past 
three  weeks.  Poor  fellow  !  He  could  scarcely  under- 
stand that  we  intended  staying  with  him  till  he  has 
fully  recovered.  He  pooh-poohed  the  idea  as  vigorously 
as  he  could  in  his  weakened  state,  but  with  a  sort  of 
sneaking  pleasure  over  our  obduracy. 

I  immediately  assumed  the  position  of  commander-in- 
chief  in  the  sick-room,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see  how 
much  he  made  of  the  fact  that  one  of  his  own — and  a 
woman,  at  that — was  caring  for  him.  "  Nurse  Eleanor  " 
he  and  Hall  dubbed  me  at  once ;  whereupop  I  twisted  a 
lace  handkerchief,  cap -fashion,  upon  my  head,  to  be  in 
character,  and  they  have  pronounced  it  vastly  becoming. 
Hall  attends  to  Severn's  important  affairs  and  keeps  him 
in  the  best  of  spirits,  while  I  am  "  seeing  to  things,"  I  tell 


157 


him,  with  an  air  of  mock  importance.  The  pleurisy  was 
very  sharp,  and  his  complete  recovery  will  be  slow.  He 
gets  quite  impatient  at  times — men  have  not  our  sex's 
inherent  submission  in  physical  trials. 

While  Hall  is  out  I  read  or  talk  to  Severn.  We  have 
had  some  beautiful  hours.  We  had  been  here  but  a  few 
days  when  I  received  a  box  of  jacqueminot  roses  one 
morning  with  Severn's  card.  I  was  expostulating  with 
him  over  the  pretty  extravagance  when  we  were  alone 
together  later  in  the  day. 

"I  know  you  like  Kenyon's  violets  best,"  he  said,  put- 
ting his  hand  over  mine,  as  it  rested  on  the  sheet  beside 
him,  "  but  I  wanted  to  condone  a  former  rudeness  of 
mine.  You  have  grown  to  look  like  your  rose-cousins 
again,  little  girl,  and  I  wanted  you  to  know  how  glad 
I  am." 

I  was  perceptibly  startled  as  the  purport  of  his  words 
occurred  to  me,  for  the  blood  rushed  violently  over  my 
face ;  but  afterwards  we  had,  or,  rather,  he  had,  a  long 
talk  about  Hall. 

He  told  me  many  little  tales  of  his  independent  boy- 
hood and  adolescence,  throughout  which  he  had  never 
had  to  account  for  the  gravest  indiscretions  to  any  au- 
thority closer  than  his  tutors  or  the  college  faculty  ;  of 
his  recklessness  and  Bohemian  tendencies  when  he  came 
into  manhood ;  all  of  which,  added  to  the  charm  of  his 
person  and  intellect,  had  provided  him  an  easy  entrance 
to  a  brilliant  circle  of  literary  and  artistic  men  of  the 
world.  It  had  spoiled  him  with  adulation  almost  irre- 
sistibly from  the  first.  I  knew  he  was  offering  the  lov- 
ing critique  of  his  peculiar  friend  as  an  apology  for 
much  from  which  he  supposed  I  had  suffered,  and  I 


158 


thanked  him — with  a  look — for  his  tenderness  when  he 
had  finished.  I  feel  that  he  knows  us  both  pretty  well, 
and  he  wants  to  ward  off  all  clashing ;  but  I  think  he 
realizes  that  I  am  not  the  Eleanor  of  the  past,  for  he  has 
ceased  to  quiz  me  as  he  used. 

Last  night — dear  Constance,  if  the  writing  is  illegible 
you  will  forgive  me,  I  know,  when  you  reach  the  end — 
last  night  we  were  all  three  together.  We  were  very 
merry,  and,  to  speak  truly,  Hall  and  Severn  soon  became 
so  hilarious  that  my  head  began  to  throb  with  the  un- 
usual excitement,  and  I  finally  grew  altogether  silent,  con- 
tenting myself  with  smiling,  with  half-closed  eyes,  over 
their  anecdotes  and  reminiscences. 

Hall  quickly  noticed  my  silence,  and  stopped  abruptly 
in  a  tale  he  was  telling  of  some  preposterous  wager. 
"  What  is  wrong,  Eleanor  ?"  he  asked,  hastily. 

"  I  have  a  slight  headache,"  I  answered.  "  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  bed." 

"  We  were  too  noisy,"  said  Severn,  with  compunction. 
"  You  do  look  sort  of  drooping,  lady-rose.  Can't  we  do 
something  for  you  ?" 

"  No,"  I  smiled,  rising  wearily.  "  I  shall  make  myself 
a  cup  of  tea  and  sleep  the  ache  away." 

I  came  over  to  shake  up  his  pillows,  and  as  I  bent  over 
him  he  drew  my  face  down  to  his. 

"Kiss  all  around,  Eleanor,  as  Constance  says!"  he 
laughed,  in  his  big-brotherly  fashion,  holding  my  face  be- 
tween his  hands.  "  I  wish  my  kiss  could  conjure  off  the 
pain  for  you ;  but  perhaps  Hall's  can." 

"  Silly  fellow  !"  I  returned.  "  Let  me  go ;  tea  and  quiet 
are  all  I  need." 

"  How  do  you   like  that,  Kenyon  ?"  he    questioned ; 


159 


but  I  did  not  hear  Kenyon's  answer  as  I  closed  the 
door. 

I  lit  the  spirit-lamp  under  my  urn,  and,  while  waiting 
for  the  water  to  boil,  settled  myself  on  the  divan  with  a 
copy  of  Hall's  first  book.  Have  you  ever  seen  it  ? — that 
book  of  sketches,  I  mean.  Most  of  them  appeared  in 
the  magazines,  but  two  of  them  are  new ;  you  will  detect 
them  at  once.  They  are  powerful,  I  think — written  with 
a  clear,  steady  pen.  He  calls  a  spade  a  spade  with  an 
almost  brutal  frankness  in  places,  but  he  has  adopted  a 
style  which  admits  of  few  trimmings. 

I  had  just  grown  interested,  for  the  third  time,  in  the 
one  called  "Shadows,"  when  he  came  in.  He  insisted 
upon  making  the  tea,  and  carrying  a  cup  in  to  Severn ; 
but  he  returned  immediately,  and  we  were  soon  drink- 
ing our  own  together,  as  we  had  done  once  or  twice  be- 
fore in  our  nomadic  hotel  life.  I  love  to  watch  him 
when  he  is  in  that  quiet  mood,  the  thoughtful,  musing 
look  upon  his  face  evidencing  his  contentment  of  mind. 

Quite  unexpectedly  he  looked  across  at  me  and  said, 
"What  does  that  far-away  look  in  your  eyes  mean, 
Eleanor  ?" — we  had  been  very  quiet.  "  I  have  noticed  it 
several  times  in  the  past  two  weeks.  It's  a  remarkably 
hungry  look.  Anything  wanting  ?" 

"  Oh  no !"  I  faltered ;  and,  being  in  a  somewhat  un- 
strung state,  the  tears  crowded  to  my  eyes.  I  buried  my 
face  in  the  cushion,  not,  however,  quickly  enough  to  es- 
cape his  observation.  The  unprecedented  sight  shocked 
him  curiously.  I  tried  to  control  myself,  but  could  not ; 
and  I  cried  silently  for  several  minutes  with  my  head  in 
the  silken  pillow.  He  made  no  sound  or  movement,  but 
when  I  at  last  turned  my  head  I  saw  that  he  was  quite  pale. 


160 


"  I — I  was  only  silly,"  I  stammered,  sitting  up.  "  For- 
give me." 

"  Have  I  hurt  you  in  any  way  ?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"No,  no,"  I  protested,  hastily,  drying  my  eyes. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  a  woman  often  gets  hysterical  for 
no  definite  reason  ?" 

"And  you  are  sure  you  are  quite  well  but  for  this 
headache  ?"  he  returned,  still  unconvinced. 

I  laughed,  though  somewhat  unsteadily.  "  Of  course. 
It  really  was  nothing." 

"You  can't  evade  me  now,  Eleanor.  There  is  some- 
thing haunting  you.  Out  with  it !" 

But  I  shook  my  head. 

"  Then  I'll  guess,"  he  ventured,  playfully. 

"You  can't,"  I  said,  swiftly,  with  a  burning  face. 
Then,  because  the  anxious  regard  of  his  beloved  counte- 
nance drew  me  closer  to  his  confidence,  I  added,  "  It 
was  all  Severn's  doing." 

"Severn!" 

"Yes;  he — he  is  so  lov — he  reminds  me  so  much 
of  the  children — and  Constance."  I  tried  to  keep  my 
voice  brave  and  steady,  but  it  was  altogether  impossi- 
ble. 

"  Ah,  you  are  homesick." 

"  No,  no,"  I  pleaded,  pained  by  the  pain  in  his  voice 
as  he  so  quickly  grasped  my  trouble. 

"  But  you  are.  After  all,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 
This  hop-skip-and-a-jump  existence  is  not  exactly  what 
you  have  been  trained  for.  What  have  you  been  con- 
sidering, Eleanor?" 

"  Only  dreaming,"  I  murmured,  carried  away  by  my 
wistful  heart  and  his  insistence.  My  eyes  were  on  the 


161 


tip  of  my  shoe  as  I  drove  it  in  and  out  the  deep  pile  of 
the  carpet. 

"  Dreaming  of  what  ?"  he  pressed,  with  gentle  in- 
dulgence. 

"  I  have  been  dreaming— rdreaming  of  a  home,"  I  re- 
turned, abstractedly. 

"  Yes,  dear  ?" 

"It  was  a  visionary  one." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Go  on.  I  have  an  idea  you  could 
make  a  very  charming  home,  Eleanor." 

"  Have  you,  indeed  ?"  I  asked,  with  some  excitement. 
"  Shall  I  give  you  a  design  ?" 

"  Proceed,  architect,"  he  returned,  half  banteringly,  as 
though  humoring  me  in  a  whim ;  half  earnestly,  as  though 
with  serious  purpose. 

"Well,  this  is  one,"  I  said,  slowly,  leaning  back  and 
clasping  my  hands  over  my  head,  as  I  do  when  I  let  my- 
self day-dream.  "  It  is  not  a  large  house,  but  a  broad 
and  sunny  one.  I  should  want  each  room  to  be  beauti- 
ful and  individual,  as  though  the  furnishings  were  the 
evolution  of  some  particular  motive,  graceful  or  quaint, 
rich  or  simple ;  but  each  warm  and  welcoming,  like  faces 
that  bring  peace  or  comfort  at  a  glance.  I  should  want 
your  study  to  be  full  of  solid  manliness  and  ease,  where 
you  could  write  without  disturbance.  Of  course,  we 
should  entertain  somewhat,  because  friction  is  broaden- 
ing and  brightening.  I  think  —  yes,  I  think  I  should 
make  a  feature  of  some  '  perfect  little  dinners,'  to  which 
we  should  have  your  brightest,  most  captivating,  and 
congenial  friends — not  more  than  two  or  three  at  a  time, 
because  I  should  want  to  '  make  economies,'  as  that  little 
French  lady  said ;  and  after  dinner  we  can  always  have 
11 


162 


I  had  been  speaking  excitedly,  but  I 
noticed  the  glow  which  had  slowly  mounted  to  his 
temples. 

"  Go  on  romancing,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  as  I  paused  to 
take  breath.  "  It  sounds  very  alluring." 

"  That -is  all,"  I  said,  with  sudden  shyness — I  had  for- 
gotten myself  entirely. 

"  Well,  let's  go  home,  as  the  children  say  when  they 
feel  tirecl,  and  go  to — such  a  home." 

"  To-night,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  madam,"  he  bowed.  "  In  a  week  or  two,  when 
Scott  is  quite  well.  Griff  can  stay  and  go  with  him  to 
the  mountains." 

"  Why,  I  was  only  jesting,"  I  objected,  stunned  by  his 
calm  decision.  "  It  was  only  an  idle  dream." 

"  Was  it  ?     Would  you  not  like  it  to  materialize  ?" 

I  gazed  at  him  uncomprehendingly.  I  could  not  an- 
swer. 

"  /  should,"  he  continued,  with  a  grave  smile  over  my 
bewilderment.  "  Perhaps  the  fact  that,  heretofore,  no 
business  or — family  ties  have  ever  bound  me  to  a  place,  or 
recalled  me  with  a  trace  of  necessity  or  desire,  has  en- 
gendered this  roving  spirit  in  me.  But  it  is  different 
now.  Why  should  we  be  forever  on  the  wing?  I  am 
tired  of  it,  too !  The  idea  of  going  home  to  roost  for 
good  and  all  is  at  last  pleasant  to  me.  Growing  old  and 
less  adventurous,  Eleanor !  But  I — I  should  like  to 
build  such  a  nest,  where  we  can  always  find  each  other. 
It  is  good.  Where  shall  it  be?"  He  spoke  with 
singular  resolution. 

"  Could  it  be  in — San  Francisco  ?"  I  almost  whispered, 
in  my  intense  amazement  and  happiness. 


163 


"  Certainly.     Why  not  ?" 

I  strangled  a  sob  before  I  answered.  "  Then — I  want 
to  ask  you  something  more — may  I  write  and  ask — Con- 
stance to  find  us  a  house — to  have  it  ready  to  step  into — 
all  but  the  touches  which  we  shall  bring  and  give  to  it 
ourselves  ?" 

"Constance?  Yes,  she  will  know,"  he  answered,  qui- 
etly and  very  gently.  "  Write  to  her,  and  tell  her  just 
what  you  want." 

Something  sang  in  my  heart  all  night,  and  early,  early 
this  morning — for  he  would  not  let  me  last  night — I  got 
up  to  write  to  you.  Oh,  Constance,  we  are  coming  home ! 
It  is  ringing  in  my  ears  like  marriage -bells — coming 
home  !  coming  home  !  So  find  us  a  house,  love,  not 
large,  but  cosey,  with  a  pretty  hall ;  a  pretty  entrance  is 
like  a  happy  promise.  And  remember,  Griff  will  come 
later — Griff,  who  will  adore  you,  Constance.  And  then 
furnish  it.  See,  I  do  not  even  ask,  "  Will  you  ?"  We 
come  to  our  mothers  unquestioningly.  As  for  the  rest? 
Oh,  you  will  know — did  not  Hall  say  so  ?  Buy  as  for 
yourself.  Engage  the  maids  ;  let  all  be  ready  to  receive 
us  on  the  day  when  we  shall  send  you  word  !  And  then, 
angel,  on  the  day  after  our  return,  when  you  and  I  are 
sitting  quietly  together,  holding  each  other's  hands,  I 
shall  have  much  to  tell  you  ! 

Constance,  Constance !  will  you  be  glad  to  see  your 
selfish,  troublesome  child  again  ?  Pretend  you  will  be  ! 
Pretend  you  love  me — because  I  love  you  so  much. 
And,  Constance  —  I  am  coming  home,  coming  home! 
Dear,  I  cannot  see,  I  am  crying  so.  ... 

ELEANOR  KENYON. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  stuffy  Oakland  local  sped  eastward.  At  every 
whistle  a  little  girl  with  a  piquant,  freckled  face  would 
spring  to  her  feet  and  exclaim,  excitedly,  "  Here  we  are, 
Grace  !  Do  get  up  now." 

"  Sit  down,  Marjorie,"  finally  came  the  pleasant  voice 
from  the  gentle-faced  girl  beside  her;  "we  won't  be 
there  for  fully  five  minutes  yet." 

"  Do  you  think  you'll  know  her,  Grace  ?" 

"  Of  course,  child.     It  isn't  two  years  since  she  left." 

"  But  she  won't  know  me  ;  I've  grown  so  ,big  since. 
Grace,  you  are  terribly  excited,  too  ;  you  are  holding  my 
hand  so  tight  that  you  hurt." 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  you'll  fidget  yourself  out  of  the 
door.  Let  me  pull  your  hat  straight.  Do  you  want  to 
look  like  a  little  Western  hoyden  before  your  distin- 
guished brother-in-law  ?" 

"What  shall  I  call  him?"  asked  the  child,  sitting  still 
while  Grace  retied  the  white  silk  ribbons  under  her  chin 
and  pulled  a  few  curls  into  view. 

"  Why,  Hall,  of  course  !  Now  one  more  station."  The 
flush  rose  steadily  over  her  face,  and  her  hold  on  Mar- 
jorie's  hand  tightened.  Before  the  cry  of  "  Sixteenth 
Street!"  had  fairly  left  the  conductor's  lips  they  had 
moved  quietly  and  swiftly  to  the  door. 

The  "  Overland"  whizzed  into  view  a  few  minutes  later. 
As  the  long  train  passed,  Grace  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 


165 


tall  form  and  memorable  face  on  one  of  the  platforms, 
and,  grasping  Marjorie's  hand,  hurried  with  her  toward 
the  car. 

Her  foot  had  just  touched  the  step  when  she  felt  a 
hand  upon  hers,  and  she  looked  up  into  Kenyon's  face. 

"  Grace !"  he  said,  in  low-voiced  greeting,  lifting  the 
child  to  his  side  and  keeping  his  arm  about  her  while 
he  shook  Grace's  hand  in  silence.  "This  is  kind  of 
you,"  he  added,  after  a  second,  his  eyes  resting  with 
steady  friendliness  upon  her  girlish  face.  "  You  will  find 
Eleanor  inside.  I'll  come  in  presently  with  Marjorie." 
He  nodded  toward  the  door,  and  Grace  moved  on. 

In  some  bewilderment  she  passed  with  several  others 
down  the  aisle,  scarcely  scanning  the  faces  of  the  pas- 
sengers, conscious  that  the  one  she  sought  would  stand 
out  before  all  others. 

"  Grace  !" 

She  stood  still.  The  low,  sweet  call  was  unexpected. 
Standing  before  her  was  a  woman — one  with  a  soft  ra- 
diance upon  her  beautiful  face !  Grace  caught  her 
breath* 

"  Eleanor  I1'  she  breathed,  as  the  slender,  gloved  hand 
drew  her  into  the  drawing-room.  For  a  moment  she 
felt  a  lingering  kiss  upon  her  lips.  Then  she  found 
herself  seated  close  beside  her,  the  strangely  lovely 
eyes  devouring  her  in  painful  ecstasy. 

"  You  have  grown  to  be  such  a  pretty  girl !"  spoke 
the  changed,  slow  voice,  so  deeply  happy  that  it  trem- 
bled on  the  verge  of  sorrow. 

The  tears  rose  unaccountably  to  Grace's  eyes.  She 
was  unprepared  for  the  change  and  thoroughly  unnerved ; 
she  could  not  speak. 


166 


"Are  you  all  alone?"  asked  Eleanor  then. 

"  Marjorie  is  outside  with  your — with  Hall,"  she  an- 
swered, conquering  her  emotion.  "  Edith,  you  know, 
is  at  Vassar — " 

"  Yes,  we  saw  her  there.  She  is  a  very  happy  stu- 
dent. But  it  seems  queer  to  see  you  without  your 
chum." 

"  My  demon,  you  mean — yes,  that  will  be  the  greatest 
change  of  all  to  yon.  But  Constance  thought  it  best  to 
let  her  have  her  way ;  she  thought  it  a  very  excellent 
way — for  Edith.  Constance  was  so  sorry  she  couldn't 
come.  The  mornings  are  still  too  cold  for  Nan,  and 
Constance  seldom  leaves  her  now." 

"  Then  we  shall  go  to  them  at  once." 

"  No ;  they  are  coming  to  your  house  directly  after 
luncheon.  Nan  is  so  excited  that  Constance  said  she 
would  try  to  make  her  sleep  this  morning.  She  knows 
every  corner  of  your  house  by  heart,  though  she  has 
never  been  in  it." 

Kenyon  came  in  with  the  child  at  that  moment. 
"  There  is  your  new  sister,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  lifting 
her  into  Eleanor's  arms,  where  she  stayed  until  they 
reached  the  slip. 

About  an  hour  later  Grace  came  in  upon  Constance. 
The  latter  had  turned  from  the  window  where  she  had 
been  stationed  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  re- 
garded Grace  in  questioning  anticipation. 

"  I  did  not  know  her,  Constance,"  she  replied,  as 
though  still  spellbound.  "  She  is  simply  the  most 
beautiful  woman  I  shall  ever  see.  She  is  so  changed, 
too  !  I  can't  describe  her  to  you.  There  is  a  spirit- 
ual radiance  upon  her  face  which  makes  it  more  like  a 


167 


dream-face  than  a  human  being's.  She  seems  to  have 
struggled  out  of  a  conflict  into  an  unfamiliar  peace. 
She  is  the  same — yet  so  new.  And  then  her  voice — it 
is  like  the  murmur  of  quiet  waters.  But  the  change  is 
wider  than  on  the  surface.  She  is  slower  in  every  way. 
When  we  reached  the  mole  she  saw  that  every  one  was 
carefully  out  before  she  gave  her  hand  to  her  husband  to 
be  helped  down.  You  remember  how  Eleanor  used  to 
jump  from  a  car  or  a  train,  and  leave  others  to  straggle 
after  her  as  best  they  could.  I  did  not  know  her ;  she 
is  no  longer  Eleanor  Herriott  —  she  is  Hall  Kenyon's 
wife.  She  has  been  tamed — yes,  that  is  it.  Yet  why 
should  it  make  me  sad,  Constance  ?" 

"  You  are  excited,  Grace.  It  is  only  the  great  happi- 
ness of  her  home-coming  which  makes  her  look  like  that, 
and  brings  these  extravagant  phrases  from  you." 

"  No  ;  you  will  feel  it  fully  when  you  see  her  !  I  no- 
ticed people  on  the  ferry  turning  to  look  at  her.  No 
wonder;  if  I  were  a  man  I  should  fall  hopelessly  in  love 
at  the  first  glance  at  such  a  face." 

"  She  has  her  husband  for  that,  dear,"  she  said,  gen- 
tly stemming  her  romantic  dreamer.  "  Has — he  changed 
much  ?" 

"  lie  has  grown  older.  He  has  the  same  striking  phy- 
sique, but  his  face  has  lost  its  glow  ;  so  has  his  whole 
personality.  There  is  an  air  of  imperturbability  about 
him  now  which  makes  me  wonder  what  is  going  on  be- 
hind his  brow.  Oh,  they  looked  so  handsome  as  they 
stood  together  on  the  steps  of  their  house  !  Eleanor 
nodding — Hall  with  his  hat  raised  as  we  drove  off." 

For  the  two  home-comers  had  mounted  the  steps  of 
their  new  home  quite  alone.  Kenyon  put  into  the  lock 


168 


the  key  Grace  had  given  him,  and  threw  open  the  door 
to  Eleanor.  "  Walk  into  your  own,  my  lady,"  he  said. 

Eleanor  stepped  in  past  him.  A  bright  fire  was  burn- 
ing in  the  open  grate  of  the  quaint  redwood-encased  hall, 
and  as  the  friendly  warmth  of  the  blaze  burst  upon  her, 
she  turned  hastily  back  to  him. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  little  laugh,  throwing  his 
hat  and  overcoat  upon  a  chair. 

"  It  looks  so  beautiful,"  she  faltered. 

He  laughed  again,  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  They 
walked  from  room  to  room,  saying  little,  but  each  feel- 
ing the  experienced,  womanly  knowledge  which  had 
given  to  the  house  the  atmosphere  of  a  refined  home. 
They  came,  presently,  into  the  shining,  tiled  kitchen,  full 
of  savory  odors  of  good  cheer,  where  a  plump,  rosy- 
cheeked  German  girl  stood  smiling  and  courtesying. 

"  You  are  Gretchen,  aren't  you  ?"  said  Eleanor,  com- 
ing farther  into  the  room,  leaving  Kenyon  standing  in 
the  doorway.  The  girl  stammered  something  in  answer, 
and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  unreserved  admiration. 

"  I  hope  you  will  like  it  here,"  continued  her  mis- 
tress's sweet  voice,  "  and  that  we  shall  get  along  nicely 
together." 

"  I  hope  you  like  me  !"  exclaimed  Gretchen,  with  un- 
restrained bucolic  fervor,  impulsively  disregarding  gram- 
matical time. 

Kenyon,  with  an  eye  to  effects,  noted  the  picture  be- 
fore him :  Gretchen,  in  bright  blue  calico  gown,  flaxen- 
haired  and  blue-eyed,  gazing  with  humble  wistfulness  at 
the  beautiful  woman  in  her  simple  dark  travelling-dress ; 
behind  them  the  glowing  cooking-range,  with  its  great 
red  eye  and  steaming  pots. 


169 


"  You  will  get  along  capitally,"  he  said,  heartily ;  and 
after  turning  to  say  a  word  to  the  little  French  maid, 
they  went  on  up -stairs,  but  came  down  again  shortly 
after,  and  moved  into  the  dining-room,  with  its  table 
prettily  laid  for  two. 

"  You  should  say  grace,  Hall,"  suggested  Eleanor, 
glancing  with  a  shy  smile  towards  him,  as  they  seated 
themselves  at  either  end. 

"Your  face  supplies  that,"  he  said.  "My  lips  are 
overpowered  in  moments  of  joy."  Eleanor  caught  a 
swift,  unfathomable  look  from  him.  The  luncheon  passed 
merrily,  Kenyon  assuming  the  honors  with  exaggerated 
ease. 

"  I  must  go  down  to  the  Custom-house  directly,"  he 
said,  just  before  they  arose,  and  he  lit  his  cigar,  at  Elea- 
nor's suggestion — she  was  never  averse  to  the  smoke  of 
a  good  cigar.  "  There  are  three  cases,  I  believe,  with 
our  effects  of  travel." 

"  Yes,  and  the  trunks,"  she  supplemented,  following 
him  into  the  hall.  "  Will  you  send  that  long,  low  one 
up  at  once,  please?  I  want  it  particularly  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Want  it  particularly  ?"  he  repeated,  as  he  stooped 
slightly  to  allow  her  to  assist  him  with  his  overcoat. 
"  Have  you  found  a  particular  want  ?  It  will  be  a  novel- 
ty to  gratify  one  for  you."  He  was  looking  down  at 
her  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  come  from  a  great 
height.  The  smile  was  quickly  succeeded  by  a  faint 
frown,  and  he  put  his  hand  under  her  chin  and  raised 
her  face. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  asserted.  "  Your  eyes  have  great 
shadows  about  them.  Lie  down  and  rest  for  a  while." 


170 


"  I  am  not  tired,"  she  returned,  flushing,  and  drawing 
from  his  touch.  "  It  is  something  quite  different.  Hall " 
— her  breath  seemed  entangled  before  she  could  con- 
tinue— "  Constance  will  be  here  presently." 

"  That  is  good  to  hear."     Their  eyes  met  steadily. 

"  Then — I  want  you  to  come  home  and  have  tea  with 
us.  Will  you  ?" 

«*  I  shall  surely  come,"  he  replied,  as  he  stooped  and 
lightly  kissed  her  wistful  eyes.  "  God  bless  our  home, 
dear,"  he  murmured,  earnestly.  And  as  he  picked  up  his 
hat  and  gloves,  he  added,  with  a  curious,  abrupt  laugh, 
"  Do  you  know,  Eleanor,  that  you  have  never  kissed 
me  ?" 

She  took  a  step  forward,  but  as  swiftly  drew  back  be- 
fore she  reached  him.  "  Wait  till  to-night,"  she  prom- 
ised, in  low  indistinctness. 

"  That's  a  long  way  off,"  he  returned,  with  an  irritated 
laugh.  "  Many  hours  between  now  and  then  !  Better — 
Well,  never  mind !  I  must  be  off." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  she  moved  up 
to  her  pretty  violet-hung  bedroom.  There  she  quickly 
made  her  toilet,  gathering  her  hair  anew  into  the  great 
coil  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  changing  her  travelling- 
dress  for  a  pale  heliotrope  gown  which  she  had  brought 
with  her  in  her  bag.  Then  she  wandered  down  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"  It  is  a  graceful  room,"  she  thought,  moving  noise- 
lessly about.  "  No  one  but  Constance  could  have  ar- 
ranged it.  I  shall  not  move  a  chair  to-day.  I  suppose 
it  will  take  the  kink  of  my  taste  soon  enough.  But  to- 
day—" 

The  sound  of  rolling  wheels  came  to  a  stand-still  be- 


171 


fore  the  house.  Her  hands  caught  at  each  other  as  if  for 
mutual  support.  She  stood  still  as  death,  her  eyes  turned 
towards  the  door.  Presently  the  portiere  was  drawn 
aside,  and  the  grave,  noble-faced  woman  looked  in  at  her. 
They  advanced  with  outheld  hands,  which,  groping,  met 
in  a  vise-like  grasp  as  they  stood  and  gazed  deep  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Then  Constance  drew  the  younger  to 
her  in  a  close  embrace.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  pas- 
sionate sob  from  Eleanor  as  Constance  softly  laid  her 
cheek  upon  hers. 

They  had  drawn  apart.  Eleanor  started  with  pain  at 
sight  of  Nan  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with 
her  hand  in  Grace's.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  brokenly,  "  little 
Nan  !"  She  sank  on  her  knees  with  her  arms  about  her, 
and  Nan's  small,  thin  hand  wandered  over  her  face.  She 
was  very  light  and  frail  now.  Eleanor  lifted  her  easily  in 
her  arms. 

"  Take  off  your  things,  girls,"  she  said,  as  she  unfast- 
ened Nan's  wraps,  "  and  draw  your  chairs  up  close."  Her 
happy  eyes  glanced  in  such  satisfied  joy  from  one  to 
another  that  Constance  felt  her  throat  swell  when  they 
came  to  rest  upon  her. 

There  was  scarcely  any  change  in  her  own  peaceful 
face.  Her  eyes  were,  perhaps,  filled  with  a  graver  light ; 
her  mouth  had  a  slight  new  sadness  in  repose,  but  that 
was  all. 

"  How  I  miss  Edith  !"  said  Eleanor,  presently.  "  Do 
you  remember,  Constance,  how  you  used  to  count  us  as 
we  all  filed  out  of  a  car  when  we  travelled  anywhere? 
I've  been  counting.  It  seems  strange  to  think  of  our 
wild  girl  as  a  quiet  student." 

"  She  is  not  a  quiet  one,"  put  in  Grace,  noticing  that 


172 


Constance,  too,  was  struck  into  momentary  silence  by  an 
intangible  something  in  the  face  and  voice  of  their  new- 
found sister.  "  She  writes  wild  letters  yet.  Don't  you 
think  it  was  queer  that  Edith,  of  all  girls,  should  have 
developed  a  reverential  bump  for  anything  as  dry  as 
mathematics  ?" 

"  I  am  glad  you  let  her  go,"  said  Eleanor,  thoughtfully. 
"  No  matter  how  incongruous  it  seems,  it  is  a  providen- 
tial ballast — she  was  too  much  like  me." 

Just  as  she  spoke  a  yellow  envelope  was  handed  her. 
It  was  a  telegram  from  the  absent  one  saying,  character- 
istically : 

I  am  with  you  all. — EDITH. 

"  Poor  girl !"  smiled  Eleanor,  with  wet  eyes.  The 
current  phrase  had  struck  her  as  one  of  lonely  longing. 

"  I  wired  her  as  soon  as  we  received  your  despatch," 
explained  Constance,  and  when,  shortly  after,  another 
message,  this  time  from  Brunton,  was  brought  her,  Elea- 
nor knew  that  her  return  had  been  scarcely  less  indiffer- 
ent to  those  to  whom  she  had  come  back  than  to  herself. 

"  Dear  old  Geoffrey  !"  she  mused,  aloud.  "  How  is  he, 
Constance  ?" 

"  He  is  well.  He  had  to  go  to  San  Jose.  He  will  be 
back  in  a  few  days,  and  is  coming  out  at  once  to  see 
you." 

And  so  they  took  up  the  broken  threads  of  their  lives, 
and  slowly,  by  question  and  answer,  knotted  them  again 
together.  As  the  sun  began  to  slant  toward  the  de- 
cline, Constance  made  a  move  to  go.  "  It  is  getting  late 
for  Nan,"  she  said. 

**  I  have  been   waiting  for   Hall   before   making  the 


173 


tea,"  Eleanor  explained,  glancing  toward  the  clock.  "  I 
thought  I  heard  his  step  in  the  hall  some  time  ago.  I 
must  have  been  mistaken.  Perhaps  he  will  come  while 
we  are  drinking.  A  waited-for  person  never  comes,  you 
know,  till  you  have  stopped  watching  for  him." 

She  looked  so  graceful  at  the  pretty  tea-table  that 
Constance  wished  he  would  come  in  then,  but  he  did 
not.  The  shadows  grew  longer,  and  Constance  arose. 

"  It  is  too  late,  indeed,"  she  said,  "  and  the  cabman  is 
growing  impatient." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Eleanor,  regretfully,  "for  he  can't 
be  gone  much  longer  now." 

Nothing  could  have  more  strongly  marked  the  change 
in  her  personality  than  the  easy  patience  of  her  words 
and  manner.  There  had  been  no  disturbed  movements — 
only  the  calm  of  implicit  trust.  Yet  it  was  a  calm  that 
disturbed  Constance  inexplicably. 

"  I  am  so  happy,"  she  whispered,  raising  her  face  to 
kiss  Constance  as  they  stood  on  the  door-step. 

And  Constance,  kissing  her,  said,  gently,  "  May  you 
always  be  so,  darling.  Be  sure  to  come  to-night  or  to- 
morrow morning  —  with  Hall."  She  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  her  standing  in  the  doorway  and  gazing  up 
the  street  as  the  carriage  rolled  off. 

The  next  minute  Eleanor  turned  and  went  in.  "  He 
has  been  detained,"  she  decided. 

Catching  sight  of  a  huge  bunch  of  violets  on  the  hall- 
table,  she  caught  them  up,  and  buried  her  face  in  their 
fragrance. 

"  He  must  have  sent  them,"  she  thought,  with  a  little 
intoxicated  laugh. 

She  was  singing  softly  as   she   pressed  her  lips  to 


174 


them  and  passed  into  the  dining-room.  She  placed  half 
of  them  in  a  low  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table  already 
laid  for  dinner,  and  then  went  into  the  kitchen  for  a  sec- 
ond to  speak  to  the  cook.  She.  was  still  singing  softly 
as  she  trailed  up-stairs  to  her  quiet  bedroom,  and,  mov- 
ing over  to  the  window  to  draw  down  the  blind,  gazed 
out  upon  the  gathering  dusk,  while  overhead,  in  the  soft 
spring  sky,  the  glimmering  stars  stole  forth  in  holy  love- 
liness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FOR  many  weeks  Eleanor  Kenyon  had  been  anticipat- 
ing every  detail  of  this  evening.  With  the  love  of  an 
artist  who  dreams  over  each  line  of  his  secret  concep- 
tion, so  Eleanor,  with  the  most  magical  of  brushes,  had 
perfected  the  smallest  accessory  to  her  vision. 

Now,  as  she  lifted  from  the  long,  low  trunk  the  shim- 
mering white  gown  in  its  many  wrappings,  an  expectant 
serenity  attended  face  and  movement.  It  was  the  first 
step  toward  fulfilment.  And  presently,  when  she  stood 
fully  arrayed,  her  head  and  shoulders  rising  like  a  flower 
from  the  filmy  fall  of  rich  lace,  she  turned  her  starry 
eyes  toward  the  glass,  and  regarded  herself  in  still 
pleasure. 

"  This  is  my  wedding-night,"  she  mused,  "  and  this 
my  wedding -gown."  She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the 
stand  and  rested  her  cheek  in  her  clasped  hands.  "  I 
am  glad  that  I  am  fair  to  look  upon,"  was  the  long 
thought,  as  her  eyes  travelled  over  her  mirrored  loveli- 
ness ;  "  it  was  half  the  battle.  I  am  glad  to  know  that 
his  eyes  must  be  pleased  when  they  rest  upon  his  wife. 
Eleanor  Kenyon,  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you."  She  was 
grateful  for  the  winsome  reflection. 

The  color  had  risen  slowly  and  softly  over  her  face 
when  she  turned  away  and  went  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  the  violets  in  her  hair  breathing  about  her  their 
perfume  of  love.  The  light  from  the  tall,  shaded  lamps 


176 


lent  a  fairy  glimmer  to  the  apartment.  She  moved 
about,  drawing  out  the  chairs,  arranging  a  fold  of  dra- 
pery, turning  a  vase,  as  a  mother  shakes  out  her  child's 
furbelows  before  presenting  her. 

"  I  think,"  she  debated,  looking  around  as  she  stood 
still,  "  that  he  will  sit  there  !"  —  indicating  a  deep,  low 
chair.  "  And  I  shall  take  this  odd  little  seat,  and  then  " 
— she  moved  the  smaller  chair  closer  to  the  arm  of  the 
larger — "  and  then  " — she  moved  it  slightly  back  again — 
"  then  I  shall  tell  him — and  that  will  be  the  beginning !" 

While  she  stood  there  feeding  her  happy  fancy  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  long  glass  opposite, 
and  started  in  bewildered  surprise  at  the  bride  -  like 
vision.  A  playful  little  smile  dimpled  her  mouth  at  the 
unfamiliar  aspect  of  her  own  presence,  inward  and  out- 
ward. "  I  scarcely  know  myself,"  she  thought,  with  a 
laugh.  "  I  am  Cinderella  ! — Cinderella,  who  dropped  at 
last  her  rags  and  cinders,  and  put  on  folderols  and  hap- 
piness. But  the  prince  is  late."  She  glanced  at  the 
little  clock  on  the  mantel.  Nearly  half -past  six,  she 
saw,  with  vague  uneasiness,  but  a  faint  smile.  "  I  won- 
der if  he  could  possibly  have  forgotten  that  he  is  no 
longer  a  bachelor,  and  have  gone  to  dine  at  some  club  or 
restaurant."  She  recalled,  with  amusement,  the  story  of 
a  man  who,  the  day  after  his  marriage,  forgot  he  was  a 
benedict,  and  went,  as  usual,  to  lunch  at  his  father's 
house,  to  his  mother's  unbounded  consternation. 

"  I  shall  give  him  ten  minutes'  grace,"  she  said,  finally. 
"If  he  does  not  come  then,  it  will  be  time  to  grow 
angry ;  and  if  he  is  not  here  when  the  clock  strikes 
seven,  I  shall  consider  it  a  signal  to  begin  to  be  alarmed." 
She  moved  over  to  the  window,  pulled  aside  the  dra- 


177 


peries,  and  stood  looking  out  at  the  falling  night.  The 
lamplighter  on  his  white  horse  moved,  with  his  torch, 
from  post  to  post,  and  lit  the  street  with  mundane  stars. 
As  he  passed  out  of  sight,  and  the  flickering  lights  be- 
spoke the  night,  Eleanor  began  to  wonder. 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  she  thought,  with  a  sick  little  feel- 
ing about  the  heart.  "  Gretchen  will  soon  announce  that 
dinner  is  spoiling.  It's  a  shame,  too,  because  Constance 
ordered  a  very  good  dinner.  And — pshaw  ! — I  am  truly 
growing  angry!"  She  ended  with  an  agitated  laugh. 
Her  exuberance  exhibited  an  undercurrent  of  increasing 
excitement.  As  she  turned  toward  the  room  the  maid 
pulled  aside  the  portiere,  and  announced  that  dinner  was 
served. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  delayed,  Marie,"  replied  her  young 
mistress.  "  Mr.  Kenyon  has  not  come  in  yet." 

The  servant  dropped  the  curtain,  and  flew  out  to  tell 
Gretchen  that  madame  was  ravissante,  and  while,  with 
expressive  eyes  and  hands,  she  proudly  described  the 
Parisian  gown  for  the  wonder  and  humiliation  of  her 
Teuton  fellow,  the  striker  of  the  great  hall-clock  began  to 
beat  its  mellow  note  of  warning. 

"  I  must  have  that  stopped,"  meditated  Eleanor.  "  I 
hate  being  reminded  that  I  am  growing  old." 

The  minutes  slipped  away.  The  two  servants  looked  at 
each  other  with  some  curiosity  and  unconscious  enjoy- 
ment over  the  odd  situation.  Suddenly  Marie  started  up 
as  though  recalling  something.  With  an  unintelligible 
exclamation  she  hurried  from  the  kitchen.  When  she 
reached  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room,  however,  her 
glib  tongue  was,  for  the  moment,  bereft  of  action  as 

she  beheld  Mrs.  Kenyon   seated  in  a  strained  attitude, 
12 


178 


her  white  face  turned,  as  if  in  expectation,  toward  the 
door. 

"  Madame — pardon,"  finally  faltered  the  girl,  coming 
into  the  room,  her  fingers  twitching  nervously  at  the 
edges  of  her  apron,  "  but  did  madame  know  ?  Monsieur 
Kenyon  came  home  once  this  afternoon." 

"  Came  home?  When  ?"  demanded  Eleanor,  the  color 
leaping  to  her  cheek  and  brow  as  she  strove  to  keep  her- 
self in  hand  before  the  unfamiliar  eyes  of  her  maid. 

"  I  think  it  was  at  four,"  considered  the  girl,  earnest- 
ly— «  maybe  four  and  a  quarter — yes.  I  was  bringing 
madame  the  water  for  the  tea." 

"  Go  on,"  she  commanded,  hoarsely. 

"Monsieur  Kenyon — he  came  in  the  hall  with  the 
bouquet  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  had  his  overcoat 
and  hat — he  looks  like  he  hears  something  that  gives  him 
fear;  then  he  listens  a  minute,  turns  himself,  and  he  is 
gone  !" 

"  Marie,"  came  Eleanor's  faint  question,  "  you  said  he 
seemed  to  hear  —  to  be  listening?  Do  you  remember 
hearing  anything,  any  sound,  any  noise  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  girl,  with  bright,  important  eyes, 
"  nothing  ;  that  is,  only  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  made- 
moiselle, your  sister — Mees  Herriott." 

Without  a  word  Eleanor  let  her  head  sink  back  upon 
the  cushions  of  her  chair.  She  divined.  And  she  quietly 
fainted. 

When  the  maid  realized  what  had  occurred  she  rushed 
out  to  summon  the  cook,  and  presently  they  were  bath- 
ing her  deathly  face  with  brandy,  and  forcing  a  few  drops 
through  her  locked  teeth.  Many  minutes  passed,  how- 
ever, before  consciousness  returned. 


179 


"  Has  Mr.  Kenyon  come  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  strove  to 
raise  her  head. 

"  Not  yet,  Mrs.  Kenyon,"  returned  the  German  girl, 
compassionately.  The  other  stood  by,  curious-eyed,  ex- 
cited, silent,  as  she  watched  her  mistress's  ineffectual 
effort  to  speak. 

"  Leave  me,"  at  length  came  the  command. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Kenyon,"  ventured  Gretchen,  gently,  "  din- 
ner— you  have  not — " 

"  I  told  you  to  go  !" 

The  girls  started  at  the  passionate  voice,  the  brilliant 
eyes,  the  quivering  figure,  the  transformation  of  the 
peaceful-faced  woman  of  the  morning  to  this  wild-eyed 
being.  Characters  suffer  change,  not  death;  in  mo- 
ments of  strong  emotion  the  old  powers  rise  to  confuse 
and  refute  the  personality  which  lies  but  surface  deep. 
The  maids  had  not  known  Eleanor  Herriott.  She  was 
again  here.  They  moved  from  her,  half  in  terror,  half  in 
hesitation,  as  she  arose. 

"  I  do  not  wish  any  dinner,"  Eleanor  vouchsafed,  as 
though  her  throat  were  clinched  to  keep  back  the  tur- 
moil within  her.  "  Close  the  house  for  the  night." 

The  next  minute  she  was  alone.  She  stood  motion- 
less for  a  space ;  then,  without  a  glance  behind  her, 
passed  out  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  her  room. 

She  locked  the  door  fast,  lit  the  gas,  and  again  stood 
moveless  under  the  chandelier.  Then,  by  one  of  those 
mysterious  impulses  of  consequence  for  which  there  is 
no  conscious  accounting,  she  turned  to  her  dressing-table, 
seized  a  hand -mirror  which  lay  there,  stood  a  moment 
holding  it  without  looking  into  it;  then,  with  a  fierce 
movement,  dashed  it  violently  to  the  floor. 


180 


"Vain  fool!"  she  imprecated, looking  down  at  it ;  and 
lifting  her  foot,  she  ground  her  heel  into  the  glass  till  it 
lay  splintered  in  bits.  She  was  still  very  far  from  being 
a  Griselda. 

Her  face  was  vacant  now ;  she  sank  into  a  chair  and 
covered  it  with  her  hands.  She  had  been  but  a  while 
ago  in  the  position  of  one  who,  struggling  from  the  depths 
of  a  profound  abyss,  finds  herself  at  the  top  of  the  preci- 
pice, wholly  oblivious  that  hands  are  torn  and  limbs 
weary,  conscious  only  that  the  foothold  has  been  reached 
at  last !  And  now,  just  at  the  supreme  moment  of  tri- 
umph, to  sink  down,  down  again  to  the  abysmal  depths 
of  the  past ! 

Constance's  voice  !  Oh,  it  was  ludicrous  !  She  began 
to  laugh  queerly,  but  put  her  hand  in  affright  to  her 
mouth  at  the  strange  sound.  A  little  thing  like  that ! 
Only  Constance's  voice  !  Yet  powerful  enough  to  bring 
back  to  him,  with  overwhelming  force,  the  love,  the  de- 
spair, which  she,  Eleanor,  had  thought  long  since  buried  ! 
He  had  confessed  as  much  to  her  himself  the  evening 
after  their  visit  to  Pompeii.  He  had  said:  "There  are 
dreams  of  youth  which  lie  buried  under  the  cold  lava  of 
a  great  upheaval.  It  is  better  to  travel  far  from  such 
dead,  since  they  cannot  be  restored  to  life  !  If  they  rise 
again,  they  will  be  but  as  the  ghosts  of  dead  desires.  I 
prefer  the  warm  clasp  of  a  human  hand,  Eleanor,  to  the 
icy  touch  of  any  ghost." 

It  had  been  a  confession  and  an  admission  which  she 
had  quickly  interpreted.  Had  he  deceived  only  her  ? 
Had  he  played  upon  her  nostalgia  only  to  bring  himself 
near  again  to  his  lost  idol  ?  Or  had  he  also  been  the 
victim  of  distance  and  hope  ?  Was  it  love  or  onlv 


181 


memory  that  had  throttled  him  again,  and  obliterated  all 
else? 

A  melancholy  bitterness  slowly  overspread  her.  She 
seemed  to  stand  off  and  regard  Eleanor  Kenyon  as  a 
shivering,  impotent  object,  and  her  lips  almost  mur- 
mured, "  Poor  wretch  !"  Self-pity  is  the  weakness  of  des- 
peration. Now,  beside  her  old  jealousy  of  Constance, 
there  rose  the  miserable  picture  of  the  hungry  woman 
who  had  had  the  morsel  dashed  from  her  hand  just  as  it 
had  been  raised  to  her  lips.  And  presently  there  was 
added  to  this  another  maddening  feeling.  Under  her 
corsage  a  woman  may  carry  a  brutal  wound  with  smiling 
nonchalance ;  but  let  a  telltale  scratch  show  itself  upon 
her  face,  and  the*  vulnerable  spot  has  been  found.  In 
Paris,  an  alien  among  aliens,  her  sorrow  had  been  her 
own.  Here,  among  her  people,  it  would  resolve  itself 
into  a  vulgar  scandal  commodity.  It  is  easier  for  a  wom- 
an to  own  to  material  poverty  than  to  a  hungry  heart. 
Woman's  love  must  be  sought,  never  go  begging ;  it  must 
wait  until  called  for,  else  it  might  find  itself,  like  Eleanor's, 
wandering  in  the  night.  The  convention,  as  are  most  such 
conventions,  is  one  of  chivalric  protection  for  the  sex,  and 
she  who  cannot  abide  by  it  must  expect  to  suffer  either 
pity  or  ridicule.  Pity  is  pride's  rack,  ridicule  its  guillo- 
tine. "  I  hate  him !"  she  said,  in  the  very  madness  of 
love. 

During  the  hours  which  passed  while  ^she  sat  there 
motionless  she  endured  all  the  agonies  of  social  dam- 
nation, and  when  she  finally  raised  her  head  her  sallow, 
haggard  face  and  dark-ringed  eyes  were  eloquent  testi- 
mony of  her  torment. 

Her  gaze  fell  upon  the  bridal-gown  enveloping  her 


182 


like  a  satire.  "  I  am  Mrs.  Haversham,"  she  thought,  with 
a  distorted  smile,  and  as  the  grizzly  vision  arose  before 
her,  she  shuddered  and  hid  her  face.  "  I  am  afraid  of 
her,"  she  murmured ;  "  I  always  was  afraid  of  that 
woman.  Oh,  take  her  away,  take  her  away  —  I  don't 
want  to  be  like  her !"  She  suddenly  became  conscious 
that  she  was  talking  aloud.  She  looked  about  her  in 
horror.  "  I  am  crazy,"  she  thought,  wildly  —  "I  am 
quite  mad.  Oh,  papa — "  She  sat  stunned,  pallid  under 
the  awful  fear  of  hereditary  want  of  mental  fortitude. 

"  No,"  she  said,  finally,  crushing  her  hands  heavily 
upon  her  knees.  "  Let  him  go  mad !  One  of  us  is 
enough.  I  shall  not  go  mad.  But  I  have  had  enough 
of  this  man's  individuality  —  too  muc^.  I  shall  not  sub- 
mit to  it.  I  shall  give  him  two  days  to  return.  Then 
I  will  see  if  he  can  suffer."  She  rose  with  menacing 
dignity,  as  though  confronting  an  adversary.  As  she 
moved  across  the  room  the  violets  dropped  from  her 
hair — like  withered  hopes. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  tension  of  Eleanor's  faculties  was  drawn  so  tight 
that  the  following  hours  passed  with  diabolically  creep- 
ing slowness.  Her  strained  senses,  fastened  upon  one 
ultimate  moment,  suffered  the  hideous  torture  of  the 
screw,  of  which  her  changed  aspect  gave  dumb  evidence. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon  was  suddenly  called  away,"  she  said,  in 
even,  cold  precision  to  the  two  wondering  maids  the 
next  morning.  li,  I  am  not  feeling  well.  I  wish  to  see 
nobody.  I  am  out  to  whoever  calls — even  to  my  sisters. 
You  will  simply  say  to  all  inquirers  that  I  am  not  in, 
and  that  Mr.  Kenyon  is  away.  Let  no  one  come  further 
than  the  door." 

She  was  aware  of  her  impotence  to  hide  her  misery — 
feigning  would  prove  so  evidently  an  artificiality  with 
Eleanor  Kenyon  that  her  voice  behind  the  mask  would 
cry  out  the  deception.  The  heart  has  its  seasons  with 
all  nature,  and,  without  art,  it  cannot  bear  June  berries 
in  December.  She  was  maintaining  her  self-mastery  by 
an  unfamiliar  dominance  of  will,  but  the  woman  became 
rigid  in  her  restraint  and  silence. 

The  cards  of  many  old  intimates  were  handed  to  her 
during  the  next  two  days;  their  owners  were  turned 
away  with  the  glib  excuse.  She  looked  at  the  bits  of 
card-board  without  a  glimmer  of  comprehension. 

"  Mademoiselle,  your  sister  said  they  would  expect 
you  to-night,  as  Mees  Nan  cannot  be  left,"  repeated  Marie, 


184 


in  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day,  when  Constance,  after 
waiting  all  morning  for  their  advent,  had  sent  Grace  with 
the  message.  "  She  was  sorry  not  to  find  you,"  continued 
the  girl,  curiously,  throwing  out  the  remark  as  a  projec- 
tile against  an  iron  wall. 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  low  comment,  and  the  baffled 
maid  left  the  room. 

She  would  go  into  the  dining-room  at  meal-time  and 
sit  staring  at  her  plate  or  at  the  opposite  wall,  as 
though  she  had  lost  all  knowledge  why  she  sat  there. 
But  always,  by  the  same  unaccountable  dominance  of 
will,  she  would  force  a  few  mouthfuls  to  pass  her  pale, 
dry  lips.  Her  cheeks  and  eyes  already  looked  sunken — 
a  great  gnawing  void  soon  sucks  beauty  out  of  sight. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  Constance,  in 
some  anxiety,  left  Nan  with  Grace,  and  went  herself  to 
investigate  Eleanor's  tardiness. 

"Mrs.  Kenyon  is  out,"  repeated  Marie,  like  a  well- 
drilled  marionette. 

"Do  you  know  whether  she  will  be  at  home  this 
evening  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  ;  perhaps  not." 

"  Is  Mr.  Kenyon  home  ?" 

"  No,  Miss  Herriott ;  every  one  is  out." 

Constance  looked  at  the  cool,  non-committal  young 
face  with  a  slightly  annoyed  gaze.  Not  only  the  maid's 
tone  but  her  position  in  the  doorway  seemed  to  bar  all 
further  inquiry  or  entrance.  A  flush  of  resentful  dignity 
rose  to  Constance's  cheek  as  she  turned  away.  She  had 
descended  only  the  first  step,  however,  when  she  came 
hastily  back,  arresting  the  maid  just  as  she  was  closing 
the  door. 


185 


"  Tell  Mrs.  Kenyon  that  I  am  waiting  for  her,  please," 
she  said,  and,  with  a  kindly  nod,  she  went  down  the 
steps. 

The  day  dragged  on  sluggishly.  As  evening  ap- 
proached a  slow,  feverish  paralysis  seemed  to  encroach 
upon  Eleanor's  members.  She  was  nearing  the  catas- 
trophic moment  of  decision.  She  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room after  the  farce  of  dining,  and  took  up  a  book 
as  another  act  of  the  farce.  An  hour  or  two  slipped 
away  without  a  sound  or  movement  from  the  lonely  oc- 
cupant of  the  room ;  not  even  the  turning  of  a  page 
deceived  eye  or  ear  as  to  her  real  employment — the  de- 
ception had  stopped  with  the  picking  up  of  the  book. 

At  about  half -past  eight,  in  the  deep  quiet  of  the 
night,  she  heard  a  man's  firm  foot  -  fall  mounting  the 
outer  steps.  Immediately  after  the  ringing  of  the  b511 
pealed  gently  through  the  silent  house.  She  felt  herself 
turn  icy. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  muffled  voices,  an  altercation, 
an  exclamation,  a  footstep ;  the  heavy  portiere  was 
pulled  aside,  and  a  keen,  kindly  face  looked  toward  her 
from  the  threshold. 

"  Geoffrey  !"  she  almost  shrieked,  the  revulsion  of  an- 
ticipation throwing  off  all  disguise.  She  swayed  where 
she  stood  with  outstretched  hands. 

He  reached  her  side  on  the  instant,  and  his  firm,  close 
hand-clasp,  his  silent  greeting,  the  intensity  of  his  gaze 
as  it  rested  upon  her  changed  face,  brought  her  to  her- 
self at  once. 

"  I  saw  your  shadow  upon  the  blind  as  I  stood  on 
the  topmost  step,"  he  was  saying,  in  quiet  apology, 
"  and  I  insisted  upon  the  maid's  letting  me  see  you  for 


an  instant.  I  thought  you  wouldn't  rnind  me,  even  if 
you  have — '  a  headache.'  " 

11  Oh,  I  am  glad  you  have  come — at  last,"  she  began, 
in  a  high  -  strung  key,  as  he  seated  himself  near  her. 
"  You  always  did  deliberate  till  the  clock  struck  the 
hour,  and  then,  pouff !  it  was  done.  How  do  you  like 
my  drawing-room  ?  Pretty,  isn't  it  ?  That  punch-bowl 
you  sent  is  exquisite — we'll  drink  your  health  every  time 
it  is  filled.  I  hope  the  wish  won't  conjure  the  contrary, 
as  some  dyspeptic  old  pessimists  want  us  to  believe. 
There's  always  a  reverse  side  to  every  argument,  and  we 
must  listen  to  the  testimony  of  those  whose  dinners 
not  only  tasted  good  but  agreed  with  them,  mustn't  we, 
Geoffrey  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Kenyon,  what  are  you  trying  to  say  ?" 
Geoffrey  asked,  sharply. 

Eleanor  drew  in  a  swift  breath  at  the  sound  of  his 
compassionate  tone.  Then  she  began  to  laugh  hysteri- 
cally. "  My  dear  Mr.  Brunton,  what  are  you  trying  to 
say?"  she  mimicked,  "Have  you  lost  your  memory? 
I  am  still  Eleanor — crazy,  madcap  Eleanor ! — who  wanted 
to  sell  her  fortune  for  a  mess  of  pottage  on  the  day 
she  came  into  it.  Don't  you  remember  me  now  ?  And 
can't  you  understand  what  I  meant  to  say  ?  I  always 
wrote  gibberish  on  the  lines  and  some  invisible  sense 
between  them — cap  and  bells  on  top,  a  polemic  under- 
neath. Make  the  bells  tinkle,  and—  Poor  old  Punch- 
inello !  I  mean — " 

"That  will  do,  Eleanor!  Let  us  talk  rationally. 
Where  is  Kenyon  ?" 

She  rallied  on  the  instant.  "  Is  that  all  you  have  to 
ask  me,  after  a  year  and  a  half's  absence  ?"  she  de- 


187 


manded,  with  a  forced  laugh,  striving  to  drown  his  mat- 
ter-of-fact question  in  another  flood  of  words.  "  Have 
you  grown  so  old  that  you  can  take  stock  only  in  the 
present  ?  You  can't  be  more  than  forty  one  or  two  at 
the  utmost,  Geoffrey !  You  have  just  reached  the  pla- 
teau; you  can  saunter  now;  before  that  one  climbs.  Only 
after  fifty  one  begins  to  run  down.  Oh,  I  forgot,"  she 
broke  off,  catching  the  annoyed  look  upon  his  face, 
"you  asked  me  where  Kenyon  is.  Why,  he — he — " 
She  sat  staring  at  him  with  eyes  of  helplessness.  Her 
power  of  artifice  had  run  its  course.  Not  the  glimmer 
of  a  parrying  idea  came  to  her  relief. 

She  strove  to  say  something,  her  lips  moving  spas- 
modically, but  emitting  no  sound,  her  hands  fluttering 
over  her  lap.  Her  agonized  endeavor,  the  imprint  of 
some  unexplained  torment  in  her  whole  aspect  and  bear- 
ing, filled  Brunton  with  compassion. 

"  Don't,  my  dear,  don't !"  he  implored,  leaning  for- 
ward and  taking  her  feeble  hands  in  his.  "  Wait !" 

"  Geoffrey,"  she  moaned  —  "  oh,  Geoffrey,  he  —  he 
has — "  She  began  to  sob  in  deep,  painful  gusts,  like  a 
storm  long  restrained  that  can  only  spend  itself  in  heavy 
convulsions. 

After  a  little  she  drew  away  from  him,  her  wretched 
eyes  regarding  him  wearily.  "  Forgive  me,"  she  en- 
treated, in  humble  hopelessness,  "  but  I  did  not  want 
any  one  to  know — not  even  the  girls.  But  you  were  so 
kind,  Geoffrey,  and  sometimes  kindness  is  so  painful, 
and—" 

"  You  are  not  well ;  that  is  what  upset  you,"  he  said, 
as  if  humoring  a  sick  child.  "  But  isn't  there  something 
your  brother  Geoffrey  can  do  for  you  ?" 


188 


"  Nothing,"  she  said,  with  sudden  quiet.  "  I  can  trust 
you  to  let  what  has  just  passed  go  -as  though  it  had 
never  been.  You  know,  through  accident,  the  truth — 
that  I  am  wretched  !  But  you  are  the  only  one  who 
does  know.  Hush  !  I  cannot  have  it  discussed." 

He  studied  her  face  sharply,  and  understood  that  his 
investigation  was  arrested.  "  Then  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  do,"  he  said,  cheerily.  "  I  wonder  you  did  not 
think  of  it  before." 

Her  eyes  mutely  begged  him  to  proceed. 

"  Why,  Constance,  to  be  sure,  little  girl.     What  else  ?" 

She  put  up  a  passionate,  repellent  hand  and  cowered 
down  in  her  chair.  "  No,  no  !  not  Constance  now,"  she 
uttered.  "  It  carft  be  Constance  now." 

"  It  must  always  be  Constance,"  he  asserted,  with  in- 
sistence. "There  is  no  circumstance  sad  or  miserable 
enough  to  call  on  Constance  vainly.  To  stand  aloof  from 
your  sister  now  would  be  to  asperse  your  memory  with 
the  most  profligate  ingratitude.  Have  you  forgotten 
everything,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  am  so — so  ashamed. 
I—" 

"  Ashamed  ?     Before  Constance  ?     Eleanor !" 

The  whole  volume  of  the  man's  secret,  unswerving 
love  and  trust  spoke  in  the  exclamation.  It  sank  like  a 
plummet  into  Eleanor's  memory.  She  understood.  She 
arose  and  held  out  her  hands.  "  Take  me  to  her,  Geof- 
frey," she  said,  simply. 

Constance  was  sitting  alone  in  the  library.  Her  quiet 
hand  shaded  her  eyes  while  she  read.  She  heard  the 
ringing  of  the  bell  with  listless  speculation. 


189 


A  few  moments  later  the  door  softly  opened  and  the 
figure  of  a  woman  came  silently  in.  Her  white  face, 
rising  from  the  dark  fur  of  her  cloak,  seemed  to  emerge 
from  spirit-land.  She  advanced  a  step,  and  then  stood 
quite  still. 

"  Constance,"  she  whispered,  "  I  needed  a  mother,  so 
I  have  come  to  you." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

CONSTANCE'S  motherly  arms  went  quickly  about  Elea- 
nor. "  That  is  right,  child,"  said  the  tender  voice. 
"  That  is  what  mothers  want." 

She  took  the  heavy  cloak  from  her  sister's  shoulders 
and  unpinned  the  hat.  Her  strong  hand  smoothed  the 
pretty  hair  with  loving  touch  while  she  did  so.  Pres- 
ently she  had  drawn  Eleanor  down  upon  the  divan  into 
a  nest  of  cushions,  and,  seating  herself  beside  her,  drew 
off  her  gloves,  and  began  softly  rubbing  the  chilled 
hands. 

The  house  was  still.  For  several  minutes  Constance's 
strong,  reliable  figure  rose  like  a  supporting  oak  beside 
the  drooping  form  of  the  other ;  then,  abruptly,  Eleanor 
drew  herself  up,  and  the  two  women  regarded  each 
other  silently.  So  different  outwardly,  an  inward  re- 
semblance radiated  from  them,  and  proclaimed  them  for 
that  one  moment  close  almost  as  twins.  The  pale  braids, 
olive  skin,  and  noble  proportions  of  the  older  next  the 
glinting  hair,  white  face,  and  slender  figure  of  the 
younger  were  mere  accidents  of  form  and  color,  which 
faded  into  immateriality  at  this  swift  recognition  of  two 
souls.  But  reticence  soon  slipped  unseen,  like  a  shadow, 
upon  Eleanor,  and  Constance  looked  into  a  pair  of  eyes 
too  deep  and  sad  for  the  young  face. 

"  He  has  left  me,  Constance !"  she  said,  breathlessly. 
"  He  left  me  on  the  day  of  our  home-coming."  Con- 


191 


stance  did  not  answer ;  her  firm,  quiet  hand  pressed  more 
tenderly  the  one  which  lay  beneath  hers.  "  It  was  the 
incident  of  the  Louvre  repeated,"  Eleanor  continued,  mo- 
notonously. "  Without  warning,  without  a  word,  he  was 
gone.  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  from  him  since." 

"  Was  there  any  visible  impulse  ?"  asked  Constance, 
with  frowning  forehead  but  gentle  voice. 

"None  but  that  of  his  ungovernable  mood."  The 
hand  upon  Constance's  rested  lightly,  as  though  waiting 
for  her  to  proceed.  After  a  pause  the  answer  came — 
complete:  "Yes,  Constance.  It  was  you!  He  heard 
your  voice — that  afternoon  in  the  house,  you  know." 

A  flood  of  color  rushed  over  Constance's  face  and 
neck.  Her  face  contracted  with  pain.  Bat  her  eyes 
did  not  flinch  in  their  gaze  upon  the  cold,  white  face 
before  her. 

"  And  that  was  all  ?"  she  asked. 

"  All." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"  Quite." 

There  was  another  pause.  Then  Constance  spoke. 
"  Eleanor  dear,  he  will  return.  It  was  not  love ;  it  was 
memory.  You  must  know  this  yourself.  For  now  he 
loves  you  ! — must  love  you,  Eleanor." 

Her  passionless  voice  spoke  the  words  as  an  ultima- 
tum ;  they  bore  no  trace  of  self,  no  spirit  of  renuncia- 
tion. She  stated  an  incontrovertible,  impersonal  fact,  as 
one  would  say,  "  The  sun  shines." 

"  Remember,"  she  went  on,  "  your  husband  had  not 
seen  me  since  the  day  when  we  parted  in  silence  and  bit- 
terness. Linked  with  that  parting  were  unspoken  words 
of  violent  emotions.  It  was  the  mere  memory  of  these 


192 


old  emotions;  the  sound  of  my  voice  recalled  them. 
Without  premonition  it  threw  him  again  into  this  state. 
It  was  not  love,  dear,  not  despair.  Don't  fear  it.  He 
is  an  honorable  man.  The  moment  he  became  your  hus- 
band he  buried  me  from  sight.  In  all  these  long  months 
a  living  love,  thus  buried,  must  die.  It  does  die,  Elea- 
nor. Inanition  kills.  Why,  search  your  own  conscience 
and  tell  me  truly.  Don't  you  know,  as  only  the  woman 
herself  can  know,  by  signs  so  delicate  that  only  the  one 
who  loves  can  interpret  or  even  perceive  —  don't  you 
know  that  your  husband  loves  you  ?" 

The  earnest  voice  ceased.  For  a  long  time  the  sisters 
sat  so  still  that  the  sound  of  the  gas  buzzing  in  the  jets 
was  distinctly  audible.  And  then  Eleanor's  hand  moved 
from  under  Constance's,  and  was  laid  as  if  in  protection 
upon  it. 

"  Angel,"  she  said,  in  a  strange  tone,  "  your  words 
recall  a  hope  which  for  these  two  dark  days  has  lain 
dead.  Now,  since  I  am  with  you,  I  think — no,  I  know — 
that  he  not  only  cared  for  me  before  we  came  home,  but 
was  beginning  to  want  my  love  !  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
which  is  the  reality  —  which  will  prove  the  stronger — 
the  memory  or  the  love  ?" 

"  You  know  what  I  have  said.  Now  you  must  answer 
for  yourself." 

"  But  it  is  sometimes  hard  to  separate  desire  from 
hope,"  she  replied.  "  Sometimes,  looking  ahead,  long- 
ing cries,  'It  is  so,'  while  reason  corrects,  in  undertone, 
'  Would  it  were  so.'  I  do  not  stop  to  listen  to  reason. 
You  do.  Shall  I  tell  you  of  the  hope  you  have  recalled 
all  at  once  ?" 

"  Do,  my  darling." 


193 


"  You  remember  I  wrote  you  how  he  returned  to  me 
in  Paris  ?  Before  that  we  had  seemingly  grown  into 
congenial  companions — a  relationship  for  which  he  was 
thankful,  and  which  he  had  no  desire  to  break.  After 
his — absence — he  had  been  on  a  wild  tramp  through  a 
corner  of  Switzerland — he  came  back  completely  ex- 
hausted in  mind  and  spirit.  He  came  upon  me  in  my 
peaceful  mood  and — I  did  not  upbraid  him.  That  was 
my  salvation,  Constance  !  I  seemed  to  promise  him 
rest.  He  turned  to  me  eagerly,  as  a  tired  head  yearns 
for  a  pillow.  I  let  him  woo  me.  I  let  him  take  my 
hand — I  did  not  put  mine  out  to  draw  him.  And  yet, 
Constance,  I,  who  received  it  all  with  such  calm,  bore  un- 
derneath the  same  old  noontide  passion.  It  was  a  seem- 
ing, a  manner,  a  trick  which  Griff  had  taught  me.  I  let 
him  woo  me.  He  never  left  me  but  to  return  with  some 
token  to  show  that  only  materially  he  had  been  separated 
from  me.  He  coaxed  me  with  largesse  to  my  better  vani- 
ties ;  he  pursued  the  game  with  the  eager  delight  of  a  dis- 
coverer. I  took  it  all  with  gentleness.  He  thought  me — 
indulgent.  He  never  knew  that  the  growing  light  within 
him  was  with  me  an  old,  finished  story.  For  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  A  woman  must  hold  her  love  so  high  that  a  man 
must  strain  to  reach  it,  or  it  may  be  held,  like  roses  in 
June,  sweet,  perhaps,  but  a  cheap  thing  to  be  had  for 
the  gathering.'  He  never  knew  I  loved  him,  Constance." 

The  last  words  were  long,  with  lingering  hopelessness. 

"  Why,  not  at  last,  Eleanor  3" 

"  I  was  waiting !" 

"  Waiting,  child  ?  For  what  ?"  She  spoke  in  low,  un- 
expected intensity.  "  It  is  never  too  early  to  speak  words 
of  love.  We  arc  all  too  avaricious  with  tenderness.  We 

13 


194 


hoard  and  hoard  it  as  a  miser  his  treasure,  and  say  to 
ourselves,  *  Some  day  I  will  show  it  all ;  some  day  I  will 
overwhelm  him  with  my  store.'  But  too  often  the  day 
comes  too  late,  when  either  the  lips  that  wish  to  speak  or 
the  ears  that  long  to  hear  have  passed  beyond  human 
power.  Love  is  the  oil,  Eleanor,  that  keeps  the  weary 
world  turning  without  creaking.  Why  did  you  wait?" 

She  felt  the  hand  upon  hers  suddenly  raised.  Eleanor 
had  slipped  to  her  knees  before  her  with  her  old,  impetu- 
ous abandon.  She  rested  her  arms  upon  Constance's 
knees  and  raised  her  face.  The  gaslight  seemed  to  gain 
a  softened  lustre  as  it  fell  upon  her  uplifted  countenance, 
and  Constance  caught  her  breath. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  now,"  came  the  hushed  words. 
"  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  know." 

Constance's  heart  gave  a  curious  leap,  but  she  dared 
intrude  no  further  into  what  was,  perhaps,  a  shrine.  They 
sat  looking  into  the  future  without  speaking. 

After  a  little  Constance  put  her  arm  around  the  kneel- 
ing figure  and  they  both  arose. 

"  You  are  going  to  stay  with  me  now,"  she  said,  with- 
out question. 

"To-night,"  replied  Eleanor,  quietly.  "Geoffrey  did 
not  wait." 

«  Geoffrey «" 

"  He  brought  me  here." 

"  That  was  like  him.  He  always — he  generally  knows 
what  is  best.  Let  us  go  to  bed,  dear."  She  picked  up 
her  hat  and  wrap,  but  Eleanor  drew  them  gently  from 
her.  "  You  have  been  doing  for  me  long  enough,"  she 
said.  Constance  turned  off  the  gas.  With  their  arms 
about  each  other  they  went  up  the  broad  stairs. 


195 


They  stepped  softly  from  the  room  where  Grace  and 
Marjorie  lay  sleeping,  and  came  into  Nan's  shadowy 
room.  Eleanor  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  beside  the 
ethereal  little  face.  When  she  raised  her  head  the  tears 
stood  thick  in  her  eyes. 

"  Hush  !  I  know,1'  whispered  Constance.  "  She  is 
slipping  from  me." 

Eleanor  buttoned  the  collar  of  the  little  night-robe 
which  had  become  unfastened,  and  they  went  out. 

They  moved  on  to  Eleanor's  old  room.  Nothing  had 
been  altered  here.  Even  the  old-fashioned  white  rabbit 
pin- cushion,  with  the  name  "Eleanor"  picked  out  in 
black  pins  by  Nan's  fingers,  looked  at  her  with  pink  eyes 
of  recognition.  Yet  the  room  showed  signs  of  occu- 
pancy. 

"  Grace  sometimes  sleeps  in  here,"  Constance  ex- 
plained, as  she  drew  down  the  blinds ;  "  but  you  will  find 
everything  as  it  was.  You  know  Nan  would  be  discom- 
forted if  she  could  not  put  her  hands  on  things  just 
where  she  expected  to  find  them.  Let  me  brush  your 
hair  for  you,  Eleanor,  will  you  ?  It  will  rest  you."  Her 
hands  ached  to  do  something  for  the  child  who  had  re- 
turned to  her  in  her  need. 

"  No,  no,"  protested  Eleanor,  shaking  her  head  with  a 
tremulous  smile,  as  she  looked  into  her  sister's  face.  "  I 
have  grown  so  accustomed  to  taking  care  of  myself.  But 
just  for  a  change,  Constance,  let  me  brush  your  hair  for 
you,  will  you  ?  It  will  rest  you." 

A  glimmer  of  her  girlish  archness  stole  through  her 
womanly  tone  as  she  drew  Constance  down  into  a  low 
chair.  "Just  for  a  change,"  she  whispered,  drawing  out 
the  pins. 


196 


Constance's  figure  suddenly  relaxed;  she  closed  her 
eyes.  She  was  unused  to  being  cared  for.  "  Eleanor, 
you  seem"  so  much  older  than —  You  make  me  feel  child- 
ish," she  laughed,  through  apologetic  tears. 

Eleanor  did  not  reply.  She  was  busily  unplaiting  the 
beautiful  hair.  Presently  she  drew  back,  as  it  fell  in 
shimmering  splendor  about  Constance's  form,  reaching, 
as  she  sat,  almost  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  softly,  "  what  a  glory  !  How  you  are 
*  crowned,'  Constance !" 

"  The  crown  is  a  great  nuisance,"  returned  Constance, 
lightly,  moved  by  the  lingering  touch  upon  her  hair.  As 
the  long  braid  fell  from  Eleanor's  manipulation,  Con- 
stance put  up  her  hands,  drew  her  sister's  arms  about  her 
neck,  and,  leaning  her  head  back  upon  Eleanor's  breast, 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  wistful  face  bending  above  her. 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,"  she  said, 
softly.  *'  You  make  me  think  of  some  one  who  used  to 
love  to  smooth  my  hair.  You  have  our  mother's  hands, 
Eleanor." 

Eleanor  did  not  answer.  But  before  Constance  left 
her,  after  tucking  her  in,  Eleanor  was  startled  to  find  her 
kneeling  at  her  bedside. 

"  Eleanor,"  she  said,  in  painful  intensity,  "  I  want  your 
forgiveness.  I  have  often  feared  that  in  my  endeavor  to 
save  you  and — and  all  the  children — I  have  feared  when 
that  morning  came  to  us  three — to-you,  Hall,  and  me — I 
wrecked  your  life  for  you.  It  was  done,  dear,  in  a  moral 
rigor  which  held  no  tenderness.  I  had  grown  despotic 
and  self-sure.  But  I  am  beginning  to  doubt  my  every 
action.  Did  I  provide  nothing  but  unhappiness  for  you, 
child?" 


197 


Eleanor  was  sitting  up  in  bed ;  her  two  hands  closely 
framed  the  sad,  beseeching  face  on  a  level  with  her  own. 
Her  eyes  looked  clearly,  without  restraint,  into  Con- 
stance's. 

"  Constance,"  she  returned,  steadily,  "  you  must  never 
torture  yourself  with  such  an  accusation.  When  you 
gave  me  'Hall  for  a  husband,  you  unconsciously  gave  me 
the  only  happiness  I  craved !  It  was  not  a  perfect  hap- 
piness, because  that  lay  out  of  your  power,  and,  perhaps, 
out  of  your  thought.  But  to  one  as  selfish  as  I,  posses- 
sion is  always  the  great  nine  points.  When  he  became 
mine  I  ceased — to  hate  you !  Was  that  nothing  ?  You 
made  me  good  again,  because  you  gave  me  what  I  want- 
ed. That  appeals  to  what  Eleanor  Herriott  always  was, 
and  what  Eleanor  Kenyon  still  is,  perhaps.  For  I  am  a 
woman  with  more  than  my  share  of  woman's  weaknesses ; 
there  is  nothing  noble  about  me.  If  I  have  suffered,  if  I 
shall  suffer,  it  will  never  be  what  I  should  have  suffered 
if  Hall,  with  all  his  faults,  were  nothing  to  me.  Now  you 
know  me  as  I  know  myself.  Now  you  know  that  no 
matter  what  may  happen,  no  matter  what  I  may  do,  out  of 
my  selfishness  I  bless  you  for  what  you  have  given  me." 

Yet  for  many  hours  Constance  sat  in  her  darkened 
room  reviewing  the  past  with  doubting  bitterness,  as  over 
and  over  in  the  past  eighteen  months  she  had  arraigned 
herself. 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best,"  was  the  repeated  supplication 
her  heart  made,  as  if  in  justification  to  some  invisible, 
condemning  judge.  And  out  of  the  shadows  came  fe- 
vered scenes  :  the  night  of  Kenyon's  avowal  of  love — 
to  her,  her  heart  giving  no  leap  at  the  reminiscence,  only 
an  unresponsive  stupor,  like  that  which  attends  a  strong 


198 


lion  lying  strangled  in  death ;  the  night  of  the  Ferris 
dinner,  when  shame  and  fear  had  given  her  heart  but  one 
vision,  had  made  her  a  monomaniac  with  one  omnipo- 
tent necessity ;  the  marriage  of  the  two  at  Sausalito,  as 
bizarre  and  seemingly  unreal  as  an  impressionist's  frenzy. 
Why  had  such  strange,  unconventional  things  happened 
to  them?  They  were  quiet,  ordinary,  home-loving  peo- 
ple. But  the  kaleidoscopic  memories  reintruded  upon 
her  questionings.  Eleanor's  first  letter  with  its  unutter- 
able, unlooked-for  confessions,  and,  after  that,  the  months 
during  which  she,  Constance,  had  hoped  and  doubted 
and  hoped  again  for  the  welfare  of  her  wandering  child. 
Always  she  called  up  Kenyon's  image,  studying  his  feat- 
ures, gauging  his  possibilities,  delving  into  her  minutest 
reminiscences  of  him — the  wilful,  passionate,  defiant  face, 
true  as  steel,  open  as  sunlight,  with  its  curious  contradic- 
tions of  weakness  and  strength.  "  His  faults  are  weak- 
nesses, not  vices,"  Eleanor  had  written,  in  love  ;  but  when 
weakness  worked  viciously,  to  one  of  Constance  Herri- 
ott's  controlled  instincts,  such  weakness  —  moral  weak- 
ness— was  a  vice. 

"  These  flights  of  his  must  be  stopped,"  she  thought, 
with  severe  eyes  and  deliberate  mouth.  "  They  must  end 
right  here.  She  shall  not  submit  to  it.  If  it  is  physical, 
there  are  cures ;  if  moral,  there  are  other  means  of  resti- 
tution. He  is  strong  in  effort ;  he  can  conquer  what  he 
desires,  if  it  rests  only  with  himself.  He  is  stern  in 
honor ;  there  is  not  a  trace  of  depravity  in  him.  When 
he  comes  back  your  child  shall  have  a  life  like  other 
loved  women." 

In  the  dark  she  gave  her  promise  to  the  ever  invisible, 
ever  attendant  judge  who  ruled  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN  Constance  opened  her  door  the  next  morning 
and  was  passing  on  to  Eleanor's  room,  she  was  arrested 
by  the  chamber-maid,  who  told  her  that  Mrs.  Kenyon 
had  asked  her  to  tell  Miss  Herriott  that  it  had  been  neces- 
sary for  her  to  return  to  her  house  in  order  to  arrange 
some  affairs  which  needed  her  attention. 

"Did  she  say  nothing  more?"  questioned  Constance, 
slightly  startled. 

"  Nothing  more,"  replied  the  girl ;  and  Constance  went 
on,  explaining  to  herself  that  hope  had  probably  flickered 
a  little  light  before  her,  and  led  her,  like  a  kindly  demon, 
away  from  her  passive  inactivity. 

"It  is  maddening  for  her  to  wait,"  she  thought.  "  It 
is  natural  for  her  to  want  to  stay  where  he  left  her.  Per- 
haps she  will  not  come  back.  If  not,  I  will  take  Nan 
down  and  sit  with  her  this  afternoon.  Although — " 
The  rich  color  mounted  to  her  face  at  the  arresting 
thought  of  her  possible  undesirability. 

The  morning  was  almost  spent  when  a  messenger 
brought  her  a  key  and  the  following  communication : 

DEAR  CONSTANCE, — I  have  gone  to  him.  I  have  dis- 
missed the  servants  and  locked  the  house.  Will  you  look 
in  at  it  once  in  a  while  till  our  return?  Am  quite  safe. 
Forgive  me — and — again — again — pray  for  me. 

ELEANOR. 


200 


That  was  all.  No  word  as  to  her  destination,  no  ex- 
planation of  her  knowledge  of  his  whereabouts.  She  had 
slipped  from  Constance's  hands  as  from  a  leash,  and  she 
could  not  turn  to  search  for  her.  "  It  is  the  unexpected 
that  always  happens — with  Eleanor,"  she  thought,  with 
a  heavy  sigh  of  resignation.  "  She  will  write  to  me  when 
she  gets  to  him.  I  shall  have  to  let  them  go." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenyon  were  unexpectedly  called  away 
the  day  after  their  home-coming,"  she  informed  the  many 
inquirers.  "  But  they  will  return  immediately  after  the 
affair  is  arranged." 

Her  explanation  bore  two  results :  it  stopped  all  out- 
side speculation,  and  succeeded  in  giving  her  own  con- 
science some  assurance  of  their  well-being. 

"  As  long  as  she  is  with  him,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  there  is 
no  need  to  worry."  Constance  could  not  explain  to  him 
that  his  innocent  view  of  the  situation  gave  her  small 
comfort. 

A  week  slipped  away  with  no  further  news,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  Nan's  failing  strength,  the  silence  would 
have  forced  her  to  some  definite  action.  As  it  was,  the 
child's  grave  condition  claimed  her  entire  attention  and 
thought. 

She  seldom  left  her,  although  Grace,  with  her  calm 
womanliness,  very  much  like  Constance's  own,  was  al- 
ways ready  to  take  her  place.  Nan,  who  was  usually 
fretful  when  Constance  left  the  room,  made  no  complaint 
when  these  necessary  substitutions  were  made. 

"  Grace  isn't  yow,  Constance,"  said  her  little  lover,  loy- 
ally ;  "  but  she  is  like  you.  And  then  it  is  always  so 
lovely  when  you  come  home  again." 

And  Constance,  knowing  that  the  child  spoke  from 


201 


her  heart,  left  her  thus  in  Grace's  arms  one  day,  slipped 
quietly  out,  and  betook  herself  to  Brunton's  office.  The 
knowledge  that  she  herself  was  inadequate  to  advance  a 
step  toward  Eleanor  had  given  her  the  sudden  impetus 
for  this  move.  She  could  count  the  occasions  on  which 
she  had  entered  her  friend's  business  domain.  Only  an 
urgent  case,  which  could  not  be  satisfactorily  arranged  at 
home,  had  ever  brought  her  here.  There  was  a  certain  deli- 
cacy about  this  constraint  which  she  could  have  scarcely 
explained.  No  outward  sign  from  him,  but  a  certain  in- 
tuitiveness  made  clear  to  her  that  her  coming  into  his 
unadorned  law-office  caused  him  more  disturbance  than 
she  cared  to  inflict. 

As  she  entered  now  he  was  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  large  outer  room,  in  earnest  conversation  with  two 
men.  He  bowed  courteously  to  her,  and  when  the  men 
had  departed  came  over  to  her  side. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  keep  you  many  minutes,  Geoffrey," 
she  said,  putting  her  hand  into  his  extended  one.  "  My 
business  is  of  an  entirely  personal  nature.  I  did'not  want 
to  speak  of  it  at  home,  and  I  thought  you  would  pardon 
the  intrusion." 

"  Come  in  here,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  of  his  sanc- 
tum. "Now  we  can  talk  quite  unreservedly  and  lei- 
surely. How  is  our  Nan  ?" 

"  The  days  are  passing.  But  I — no,  I  won't  sit  down 
— I  have  come  to  speak  about — Eleanor." 

He  nodded  gravely,  waiting  for  her  to  speak  before 
committing  himself. 

"You  know — at  least,  did  she  tell  you  that  night — 
that  she  —  that  she  did  not  know  where  Hall  had 
gone  ?" 


202 


«  No." 

"  Well,  such  was  the  case  ;  she  had  heard  nothing 
from  him.  There  had  been  no  misunderstanding,  you 
know,  Geoffrey,  but  he  left  her  the  day  of  their  return 
without  premonition  either  to  himself  or  to  her.  The 
cause,  however,  was  perfectly  clear  to  her  and  to  me. 
You  saw  the  note  she  sent  me  the  day  after  you 
brought  her  to  me.  It  is  now  almost  two  weeks  since 
then,  and  I  have  heard  nothing  more.  This  silence 
alarms  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  sent  for  her,  or  whether  she  is  searching  for 
him,  or  has  reached  him,  or — anything.  It  is  entirely 
upon  my  own  responsibility  that  I  am  confiding  in  yon, 
Geoffrey.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Entirely.  And  you  have  done  nothing  as  yet  to  lo- 
cate them  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  want  me  to  lend  a  hand  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Without  Eleanor's  ever  knowing  ?" 

"Yes.  She  would  never  forgive  me  if  she  knew. 
But  we —  I  dare  not  let  her  pass  from  me  like  this.  It 
would  be  criminal." 

"  Yes.  Let  me  manage  it.  The  courts  are  beginning 
to  close,  and — " 

"Geoffrey,  I  did  not  mean  that  you  should  go.  I 
thought  only  that  you  would  put  it  in  efficient  hands, 
with  whom  you  could  be  in  constant  communication, 
and  so  could  let  me  know  whatever  there  is  to  know.  I 
beg  you,  Geoffrey,  not  to  think  me  quite  so  inconsiderate 
and  tactless." 

"  A  man  may  take  a  vacation  once  in  a  while,  I  trust. 


203 


But  I'll  sec  only  to  the  laying  of  the  wires.  You  will 
want  them  all  underground,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  many  reasons.  I  will  send  you  Griff's  ad- 
dress— his  friend,  you  know,  who  is  with  Severn.  He 
may,  perhaps,  help  you.  You  see,  Geoffrey,  I  am  as  un- 
hesitating in  asking  great  things  of  you  as  in  asking 
trivialities."  His  brow  contracted  —  a  word  of  thanks 
from  her  always  displeased  him — a'nd  she  hurriedly  con- 
tinued :  "  Let  no  money  or  pains  be  spared.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  spend  my  fortune  in  bringing  them  home  again— 
together." 

"  Of  course  you  will,  and  spend  yourself,  too,  for  that 
matter.  Well,  it  is  my  affair  now,  and,  everybody  else 
aside,  Constance,  I  should  hate  to  hear  that  any  harm 
had  come  to  Kenyon.  I  like  the  fellow.  We'll  start  in 
at  once,  but  we  don't  want  to  do  anything  precipitate. 
Telephone  me  Griff's  address  when  you  get  home." 

"Ah,  that  is  what  I  want — action.  Good-bye,  then." 
She  liked  action,  and  she  went  immediately,  leaving  in 
the  cold  office  a  memory  which  beautified  the  spot  for 
many  hours  to  Geoffrey  Brunton. 

But  while  she  lightened  one  care,  another  moved  on 
with  swift,  unswerving  pace. 

A  day  or  two  later  Grace  sat  singing  a  tender  ballad 
to  Nan.  The  warm  stillness  of  the  May  morning  without 
had  hushed  the  air  within.  All  through  the  night  she 
and  Constance  had  watched,  fearing  that  the  frail  cord 
would  be  snapped  without  their  knowing.  Now  Con- 
stance sat  near,  in  the  heavy  silence  of  impotent  grief. 
A  broad  stream  of  sunlight  bathed  Grace  and  the  child 
in  a  soft  radiance,  which  swung  in  halos  about  their 
heads.  The  singing  died  into  profound  silence.  They 


204 


might  have  been  transfixed  by  a  spell,  they  were  so 
still. 

"And  now,  Grace,"  faltered  the  small  voice,  "if  you 
don't  mind,  I  should  like  to  go  to  Constance." 

During  the  moment  in  which  the  sisters  changed  places 
Nan  lay  with  her  eyes  closed  and  a  smile  flickering  over 
her  pale  little  mouth.  When  the  familiar  arms  closed 
about  her  she  stretched  out  a  wavering  hand. 

"  Constance,"  she  whispered,  fearfully,  "  I  cannot  find 
you." 

"  I  am  here,  my  Nan,  close  beside  you,"  said  the  voice 
of  tenderness,  broken  with  anguish  and  tears. 

"  You  are — always  here — Constance — aren't  you — al- 
ways here — you  won't  ever  leave  me  —  will  you,  Con- 
stance ?" 

"  Oh,  my  bird  !" 

At  the  low  cry  of  sorrow  the  small,  cold  hand  sought 
her  cheek,  and,  as  out  of  a  dream,  came  the  indistinct 
murmur  of  consolation : 

"  Never — never — mind — Constance." 

And  with  the  beloved  name  upon  her  lips,  little  Nan 
passed  on  in  safety. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TOWARD  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  an  unseason- 
ably gloomy  day  in  May,  the  sun,  as  if  repenting  for  its 
erstwhile  dulness,  darted  over  San  Francisco  a  rosy  light, 
which,  through  the  mist,  gave  to  the  atmosphere  a  mys- 
terious charm.  It  was  like  that  which  lies  in  the  un- 
fathomable gaze  of  a  child  just  awakened  from  a  hazy 
dream.  It  lent- a  sudden  spring-time  vim  to  the  depart- 
ing day ;  and  the  shrill  call  of  newsboys,  the  ringing  of 
car-bells,  the  brisk  step  and  alert  eyes  of  pedestrians 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  whiff  like  a  cordial. 

It  was  the  hour  when  women,  still  busy  with  belated 
and  vexatious  shopping,  hurry  along  the  streets  with  an 
air  of  nervous  purpose ;  when  men  stroll  toward  the  car 
with  a  reminiscent  smile  for  the  appetizer  just  taken, 
and  a  genial  looking  forward  to  the  gratification  of  the 
appetite  thus  aroused;  when  here  and  there  a  lighted 
street-lamp  puts  a  premature  seal  on  the  day ;  it  was  the 
hour  of  finishing — the  vanishing  point  of  traffic. 

Brunton  emerged  from  his  barber-shop,  and  turned 
down  Kearney  Street  with  a  leisurely  pleasure  in  the 
warm  underglow  of  the  vapory  evening  air.  He  went 
into  his  favorite  shop  and  selected  a  fragrant  sprig  of 
jasmine  with  his  usual  near-sighted  care.  As  he  walked 
down  the  street  the  soft  perfume  caressed  his  nostrils 
with  wonted  delicacy,  and  he  felt  calm  and  benignant 
toward  the  world,  himself  included.  He  stopped  for  a 


206 


moment  to  examine  the  photograph  of  the  coming  mu- 
sical celebrity  gravely  regarding  him  from  Sherman  & 
Clay's  window,  sauntered  on  with  an  indulgent  nod  now 
and  then  to  passing  acquaintances,  whom  he  seldom  rec- 
ognized in  the  evening  light,  and  crossed  over  to  his  own 
particular  little  newsboy  flitting  before  the  Chronicle 
building  with  his  armful  of  evening  papers.  He  was 
at  once  besieged  by  an  army  of  importunate  venders 
with  the  shrill  cry  of  "  Bulletin,  sir  ?  Full  account  of 
the  railroad  accident!"  "  Want  a  Report?  Returns  of 
the  Louisiana  Lottery,  and  terrible  murder  by  high-bind- 
ers in  Chinatown  J"  "Post?  Lottery,  great  stage  rob- 
bery, and—" 

The  eager  little  figures  moved  on  and  bestowed  their 
attention  elsewhere  as  he  turned  to  the  dirty-faced  little 
urchin  upon  whom  his  favoring  eye  had,  since  a  long 
time,  fallen  with  material  benefit. 

As  he  took  hold  of  the  extended  paper,  his  hand  fum- 
bling in  his  pocket  for  the  customary  dime,  through  the 
swaying,  straggling  crowd  he  noticed  the  figure  of  one 
man  in  particular  passing  up  the  street.  The  sight 
paralyzed  all  further  movement.  He  stared  after  Ken- 
yon's  powerful  form  striding  out  of  sight !  He  contin- 
ued to  look— utterly  unconscious  that  the  boy  at  his  side 
was  awaiting  the  reappearance  of  his  hand. 

"  Change  ?"  suggested  the  youngster,  finally. 

"Eh?  Oh  yes  —  yes,"  he  vaguely  answered,  looking 
down  at  him,  a  line  of  perturbation  showing  at  either 
side  his  thin  nose.  "  Here,  Pretzel,"  he  exclaimed,  seiz- 
ing the  boy  by  the  shoulder  and  using  his  nickname  with 
ludicrous  gravity,  "  quick — you  see  that  tall  man  going 
— there  !  He  is  out  of  sight — he  has  on  a  black  cape- 


207 


overcoat — soft  hat — very  tall — no  mustache  or  beard. 
Run  after  him ! — follow  him  ! — see  where  he  turns  in, 
and  come  back  to  me — as  fast  as  you  can  make  it !" 

The  boy  was  off.  Brunton  watched  the  little  figure 
darting  off  like  an  arrow  with  a  dazed,  uncomfortable 
sensation.  Five  minutes  later  Pretzel  was  on  his  way 
to  him,  his  spindle-legs  flying  backward  in  alarming  dis- 
regard to  their  striking  him  in  the  upward  stroke.  He 
reached  Brunton,  breathless  and  glowing. 

"  Jest  caught  de  gent  goin'  in  de  rest'rant  corner  Bush 
and  Grant  Avenoo — he'd — " 

"  All  right,  Pretzel.  Here  you  are."  He  handed  him 
a  half-dollar,  the  size  of  which  made  Pretzel's  eyes  emu- 
lous, and  walked  off  in  the  direction  indicated. 

He  entered  the  handsome,  well-lighted  restaurant  with 
slow  step  and  his  usual  air  of  indifference.  He  was  before 
the  footlights  now,  and  his  gait  gave  no  evidence  of  what 
its  nature  had  been  in  the  wings.  He  nodded  in  cour- 
teous perf unctoriness  in  answer  to  one  or  two  salutations 
as  he  passed  down  the  long  room,  and  paused  with  a 
preoccupied  air  at  one  of  the  side-tables  near  the  end. 
Throwing  his  coat  over  a  chair,  his  eye  travelling  lei- 
surely down  the  vista  of  glittering  glass  and  silver,  he 
gave  an  apparent  start  as  he  met  the  gaze  of  the  man 
at  the  table  below  his.  He  immediately  picked  up  his 
coat  and  moved  to  his  side. 

"  Kenyon,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  holding  out  his 
hand.  The  other  seized  it,  and  for  five  or  six  seconds 
the  two  clasped  hands  were  shaken  in  the  honest  demon- 
stration which  Americans  are  not  ashamed  to  show,  and 
which  sends  a  glow  of  sympathy  to  the  most  callous 
spectator.  During  this  time  Brunton's  eye  noted,  with- 


208 


out  expression,  the  hair  silvering  at  the  temples,  the 
great  gauntness  of  the  hazel  eyes,  the  stern  leanness  of 
the  stead}7  jaw.  The  pallor  of  face  and  lip  he  passed 
by — it  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  moment's  sen- 
sation. They  seated  themselves,  and  after  a  moment 
Brunton  spoke.  His  voice  was  even  lower  and  slower 
than  usual. 

"  Just  get  in  ?"  he  asked,  casually. 

"  An  hour  ago,"  replied  Kenyon.  He  held  the  menu 
card  in  a  firm  grip ;  the  long,  dark  intaglio  on  his  finger 
seemed  to  stand  up  and  out  as  though  the  flesh  had 
shrunken  from  it.  The  words  escaped  him  like  a  mis- 
sile— he  could  say  no  more ;  he  was  suffering,  for  the 
moment,  a  lingual  atrophy  painful  to  witness.  The 
waiter  came  along  with  his  bird  and  salad  just  then, 
and  Brunton  carelessly  ordered  the  same.  Neither  spoke 
again  until  the  latter's  wine  was  placed  before  him. 

"  You  are  not  eating,"  he  said,  extending  the  bottle 
towards  his  companion's  glass. 

Kenyon  put  out  a  restraining  hand.  "  I  do  not  drink," 
he  said,  quietly. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  Brunton  was  served,  he  asked, 
with  an  assumption  of  ease  and  his  entire  attention  di- 
rected to  the  duck,  "  How  is  your  wife  ?" 

It  was  only  after  a  few  seconds  that,  conscious  of  his 
companion's  taciturnity,  he  looked  up.  Kenyon's  eyes 
covered  him  with  bewildering  intensity.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  me  that  ?"  he  returned,  almost  without  expression. 

"  Why,"  replied  Brunton,  sharply,  "  whom  else  should 
I  ask?" 

"  You  can  probably  answer  the  question  better  than  I." 

"What!" 


209 


"  I  have  not  seen  my  wife  for  almost  three  weeks. 
She  is  not  where  I  left  her." 

"  I  know  that.     Where  is  she?" 

"  Is  she — is  she  not  with  her  sisters?" 

"  No  !    Constance  thinks  she  is  with  you  !" 

Kenyon's  lips  turned  bloodless.  He  stared  at  Brunton 
as  though  he  could  not  comprehend.  Then,  with  a  hasty 
movement,  he  started  up. 

"  Your  hat  and  coat,"  reminded  Brunton's  gentle  voice, 
as  he  handed  him  the  articles.  The  next  minute  Ken- 
yon  had  passed  rapidly  out.  Brunton  paused  at  the 
desk,  and  then  followed  him  closely. 

He  could  discern  the  tall  figure  moving  westward,  but 
it  was  several  minutes  before  he  overtook  him.  Kenyon 
strode  on  like  an  automaton,  his  head  raised,  his  eyes 
fixed  before  him ;  through  the  thin  fog  his  face  shone 
livid.  On  and  on  they  walked,  the  athlete  beside  him 
seeming  to  Brunton  to  cover  space  without  conscious- 
ness. Whither  they  were  headed  he  did  not  know  nor 
care.  He  had  one  thought,  one  object :  not  to  let  Ken- 
yon  pass  again  from  his  sight.  A  man  in  Kenyon's  con- 
dition is  like  a  drunkard — his  muscles  are  as  unfeeling 
as  his  brain  is  befogged.  Brunton,  however,  began  to 
feel  winded  and  weary  after  an  hour's  steady  pace.  He 
resolved  to  appeal  to  his  silent  companion  to  halt. 

"Hall,  where  are  you  going?"  he  gasped,  brushing 
the  fog  from  his  mustache  with  his  handkerchief. 

Kenyon  started  and  wheeled  about.  "Thank  you," 
he  said,  after  a  moment,  in  an  odd,  restrained  tone,  as  if 
recalled  from  some  perilous  verge.  "  I  don't  know 
where  I  was  going — to  the  devil,  probably." 

"  1  protest,"  returned  Brunton,  with  a  forced  laugh, 
u 


210 


"  Pm  going  with  you,  but  not,  knowingly,  there,  my 
friend.  Nevertheless,  we  are  on  the  road — another  step 
will  bring  us  into  the  cemetery.  Turn  around,  Ken- 
yon." 

He  grasped  his  arm  firmly,  and  leaned  breathlessly 
against  the  high  stone  coping  surrounding  the  silent  city 
of  the  dead.  Kenyon  stood  still  beside  him. 

"  Take  your  hand  off !"  he  commanded,  finally.  "  It's 
none  of  your  concern  where  I  go!  By  what  right  do 
you  interfere  in  my  movements  ?" 

"It  is  a  self-imposed  right,  but  a  right,  all  the 
same,"  returned  Brunton,  with  slow  formality.  "  I  re- 
strain you  in  the  quondam  role  of  guardian  of  Eleanor 
Herriott,  which  office  I  reassumed  upon  my  own  account 
when  Eleanor  Kenyon  was  deserted  by  her  natural 
protector.  As  her  guardian,  therefore,  and  in  the  inter- 
est of  my  ward,  I  must  beg  you  now  to  tell  me  what  you 
intend  doing." 

"  Doing  ?"  he  repeated,  violently.  "  What  is  there  to 
do  but  to  find  her  ?  For  God's  sake,  Brunton,  help  me  ! 
I  can't  think." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  to  do  that,"  returned  Brunton, 
almost  lightly,  in  contrast  to  the  other's  distracted  tur- 
bulence. 

"  You  refuse  ?"  demanded  Kenyon,  vaguely. 

"  Certainly.  Why  should  I  help  restore  the  girl  to  a 
lifetime  of  misery  ?" 

"  Ah."  He  raised  his  hat  as  though  to  cool  his  brow. 
"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  dully.  "  You  have  no 
ground  for  believing  it  might  turn  out  otherwise  ?" 

"  No,"  assented  Geoffrey,  stolidly,  "  I  have  none  I  I 
saw  your  wife  two  days  after  you  had  left  her.  I  know 


211 


nothing  about  the  circumstance  of  your  leaving.  But  if 
ever  a  miserable  woman  breathed  on  this  earth,  that  wom- 
an was  your  wife  the  night  before  she  disappeared,  to 
go,  as  she  wrote,  to  you.  How  do  I  know  that  she  did 
not  go  to  you  ?  How  do  I  know  where  you  have  left  her 
now,  or  what  you  have  done  to  her?" 

"  Great  God,  Brunton,  what  sort  of  a  brute  do  you 
take  me  for  ?" 

"  Either  a  scoundrel  or  a  maniac."  He  faced  him  with 
almost  a  smile  which  might  have  been  insolent  had  not 
the  stern  earnestness  of  his  eye  challenged  his  dum- 
founded  auditor  menacingly. 

"  I  am  both,"  said  Kenyon,  finally,  in  a  lifeless  tone. 
"But,"  he  broke  forth,  through  clinched  teeth,  "that 
does  not  absolve  me  from  my  agony  now." 

"  And  quite  right,"  retorted  Brunton,  suavely.  "  It  is 
gratifying  to  find  that  it  is  not  only  in  fiction  that  the 
criminal  gets  his  deserts.  But  you  must  bear  it.  I  sup- 
pose you  can,  since  it  is  only  the  reflection  of  what  she 
endured  —  she,  the  delicately  -  bred  woman;  you,  the 
strong,  hardened  man !" 

"  That  is  quite  enough,"  enjoined  Kenyon,  hoarsely. 
The  rays  from  the  street-lamp  glared  down  upon  his 
ashen  face  like  a  confessor  drawing  out  the  secrets  of  a 
sick  soul.  "  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying."  A 
singular  light  illumined  his  handsome,  haggard  features 
for  a  second.  "  My  God !"  Brunton  heard  him  mutter, 
as  though  suddenly  confronted  with  the  horror  of  the 
situation. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  observed  the  lawyer,  dryly,  "  that  you 
are  on  easy  calling  terms  with  the  Great  Unknown  to- 
night." 


212 


Kenyon  bent  his  head.  "  You  would  not  understand," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  "  Come,"  he  commanded, 
roughly,  "  I  need  your  help.  I  can't  stand  still  and  ex- 
plain myself  here." 


CHAPTER   XX 

"You  have  constituted  yourself  my  judge,"  he  began, 
as  they  veered  around  and  retraced  their  steps.  "  You 
are  evidently  the  fidus  Achates  of  the  family — you  de- 
mand an  explanation  from  me.  I  throw  my  confidence 
upon  your  honor,  Geoffrey  Brunton — it  will  find  a  solid 
resting-place. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  know  of  me,"  he  continued, 
with  simple  directness.  "  To  all  intents  my  actions 
have  pointed  to  those  of  a  brute,  or  —  maniac,  as  you 
have  said.  How  much  I  am  accountable  for  them  you 
will  judge  according  to  your  own  standards.  All  that  I 
know  is  that  my  life  has  always  been  the  tool  of  uncon- 
trollable impulses  and  emotions,  over  which  reason  and 
will  held  no  restraint.  Reason  and  will !  It  seems  the 
veriest  satire  to  claim  such  possessions  in  the  face  of  the 
brainless  miseries  which  I  have  perpetrated  —  and  suf- 
fered. Whether  the  characteristic  is  the  result  of  pre- 
natal influences  or  an  acquired  habit  I  cannot  deter- 
mine. 

"  I  remember  an  incident  of  childhood  which  might 
prove  the  latter  supposition.  I  never  knew  my  parents. 
My  childhood  was  passed  with  a  maiden  cousin ;  I  was 
brought  up  on  theories — rules  and  isms  and  no  favors 
were  my  pasturage.  She  bridled  a  young  colt  like  a 
stately  carriage  -  horse.  I  kicked  at  the  traces — I  had 
bumps  and  angles  in  unlooked-for  places.  But  since,  ac- 


214 


cording  to  established  authorities,  they  were  accorded  no 
place  in  the  perfected  form,  the  straps  were  buckled 
down  over  them  as  though  they  had  no  existence.  One 
day,  in  a  freak  of  childish  indignation,  I  opened  the 
door  of  a  bird-cage  and  let  her  canary  go.  I  was  caught 
in  the  act,  and  the  anger  upon  her  face  let  loose  in  me  a 
storm  of  accusation  and  invective.  In  the  midst  of  it  she 
grasped  me  by  the  shoulder.  '  Run,'  she  said,  in  a  hor- 
rified tone — *  run  from  yourself ;  you  will  hurt  somebody. 
Run  till  you  drop !'  I  took  her  at  her  literal  word,  and 
the  lesson — it  seemed  a  good  one — has  clung  to  me  as  a 
sort  of  preventive  against  active  mischief.  Once  at  col- 
lege I  made  use  of  it  with  good  results.  Six  or  seven 
years  ago  I  suffered  a  severe,  thoroughly  unexpected  re- 
buff from  a  firm  of  publishers.  It  was  my  first  experi- 
ence in  that  line,  and  the  disappointment  disheartened 
me  almost  to  morbidity.  I  simply  rushed  out  of  the  city  ! 
That  was  the  first  time  I  did  it  impulsively,  almost  with- 
out taking  thought ;  it  was  what  I  wanted,  what  I  need- 
ed to  do."  He  paused,  drew  breath,  and  plunged  on 
with  his  narrative.  "  Again,  something  over  two  years 
ago,  I  asked  a  woman  to  marry  me.  My  love  was  thrown 
back  to  me  as  lightly  as  a  ball  is  tossed  to  a  pitcher — or 
so  it  seemed  to  me  then.  I  left  her  like  a  madman.  It 
was  a  wild  night,  and  I  was  in  harmony  with  it.  I  spent 
myself  walking  in  the  storm,  perfectly  conscious,  yet 
reckless — reason  was  having  an  orgy  with  despair,  and 
despair,  as  usual  with  me,  threw  out  reason.  I  hastened 
where  my  feet  led,  with  no  concern.  I  had  but  one 
thought,  to  end  despair  with  myself.  I  was  prevented — 
saved,  you  would  probably  call  it. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  married  Eleanor  Ilerriott.    In  Icav- 


215- 


ing  San  Francisco  I  left  behind  me  the  woman  who  was  all 
— who  was,  at  that  time,  at  the  root  of  all  my  bitterness. 
One  day,  in  the  Louvre,  I  was  suddenly  confronted  by  a 
strange  image  of  her  who,  I  thought,  had  become  but 
a  bitter  memory  to  me.  The  surroundings  faded  from 
me — the  statues,  the  crowd,  the  girl  at  my  side.  Only 
the  memory  of  our  last  meeting  remained,  and  from  it 
I  fled — blindly.  Weeks  after  I  returned — cured.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  to  return  to  my  wife  other- 
wise. There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  how  she  met  me. 
She  understood,  and —  Some  months  later  we  left 
Rome  for  New  York ;  from  there  we  came  to  this  city. 
We  were  both  very  happy  over  the  thought  of  our  home- 
coming." He  stopped  an  instant,  and  wearily  pushed 
back  his  hat.  The  confession  was  inevitable,  but  gall- 
ing. 

"  When  I  think  of  what  an  ass  I  made  of  myself  that 
day,"  he  continued,  with  bitter  denunciation,  "I  could 
willingly  strangle  myself.  I  came  home  in  the  afternoon, 
feeling  happier  than  I  had  ever  expected  to  feel  again — 
happy  as  few  men  can  feel.  I  entered  the  house  door, 
and  the  first  thing  I  heard  was —  Did  I  tell  you  that 
the  speaking  voice  of  the  woman  I  had  loved  is  to  me 
singularly  beautiful  ?  It  had  a  note  of  tenderness  which 
struck  the  senses  like  a  caress.  At  the  first  sound  I  was 
undone — not  through  love,  but  memory  of  a  frightful 
delirium.  It  is  hard  to  believe,  Brunton,  but  harder  to 
endure  the  consequences,  the  helplessness  of  such  a  tyr- 
anny." 

He  stopped  at  the  corner  of  a  steep  grade  on  Califor- 
nia Street.  They  looked  down  over  the  city  of  hills  and 
valleys,  lit  here  and  there  by  lofty  electric-lights  poised 


216 


in  mid-air  like  stars  arrested  in  their  fall.  The  sudden 
flashing  by  of  cable-cars  at  almost  every  alternate  street, 
the  faint  ringing  of  bells,  broke  the  peace  of  night. 
Brunton  leaned  against  the  lamp-post  and  said  nothing, 
looking  with  quiet  interest  into  Kenyon's  eyes,  the  flick- 
ering light  playing  in  wilful  shadows  over  the  latter's 
discomposed  face.  Two  Chinamen  passing  by,  tandem 
fashion,  looked  curiously  at  the  two  men,  and  sang  out 
laughing  comments  to  each  other.  A  policeman,  leisure- 
ly strolling  past,  regarded  them  suspiciously,  but,  after  a 
glance,  moved  on. 

"  I  walked  off — away  !  It  was  the  only  thing  for  me  to 
do !  1  could  not  have  faced  my  wife  or — the  other,  in 
such  a  disturbed  state.  The  demon  of  memory  was  pur- 
suing me  relentlessly,  and — I  could  have  cursed  it  for  its 
intrusion.  I  was  endeavoring  to  rid  myself  of  it  for  once 
and  for  always.  I  found  myself  moving  toward  the 
wharves.  In  the  noise  and  hurly-burly  I  was  suddenly 
accosted  by  name.  It  was  Joscelyn,  the  artist.  I  do 
not  know  now  what  he  said  to  me,  nor  did  I  care  then. 
I  followed  him  indifferently,  like  a  dog  led  by  a  string, 

and  we  were  soon  on  board  the  steamer  A ,  which 

was  bound  that  afternoon  for  Honolulu,  and  upon  which 
Joscelyn  had  taken  passage.  The  sharp  breeze  made  me 
giddy,  and  he  pressed  me  to  come  into  his  state-room, 
where  he  had  some  whiskey.  He  knew  there  were  only 
a  few  minutes  before  sailing,  but  in  his  excitement  at 
seeing  me  he  threw  discretion  to  —  the  sea.  He  had 
some  project  to  suggest  to  me  about  a  Honolulu  ro- 
mance, for  which  he  would  furnish  the  illustrations  and 
— what  odds. 

"  The  distraction  and  the  idea  interested  me.    He  had 


217 


intended  writing  me,  and  now,  in  his  enthusiasm  over 
my  unexpected  appearance,  he  forgot  the  urgency  of 
the  moment,  had  forgotten  entirely  that  I  was  no  longer 
the  ever-ready  tourist  he  had  known,  and  when  the  or- 
der was  given  for  visitors  to  quit  the  steamer  we  heard 
nothing.  The  whistle  had  been  tooting  since  our  com- 
ing on  board.  Joscelyn,  perceiving  my  interest,  let  the 
moment  slip  with  all  the  recklessness  of  the  adventure- 
lover  that  he  is.  He  revelled  in  the  consciousness  of 
his  bit  of  shanghaiing,  until  fifteen  minutes  later,  when 
the  whole  miserable  business  presented  itself  to  my  con- 
sciousness. Brunton — " 

"  Better  stop,  Kenyon." 

"  No.  I  can't  explain  to  you  the  remorse  of  my 
careless,  insane  oversight,  the  memory  of  my  wife,  the 
consciousness  of  the  shock  it  would  be  to  her,  the  hor- 
ror of  my  helplessness  there  in  mid-ocean  !  If  I  could 
describe  the  days  which  passed,  you  would  probably 
scarcely  believe  me,  knowing  now  that  when  I  married 
Eleanor  Herriott  I  did  not  love  her.  You  cannot  love 
two  at  once.  I  thought,  then,  that  a  man  could  never 
love  twice.  Come,  let  us  be  moving." 

They  crossed  the  street  and  continued  eastward. 

"  However,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  sounding  dry  and 
husky,  "  honor  insisted  that  I  should  strive  to  forget  the 
other  after  my  marriage  to  Eleanor.  After  it  I  plunged 
into  a  sea  of  work  totally  at  variance  with  thoughts  of 
love.  I  imagined  I  had  grown  cold  till  that  wretched 
affair  in  Paris.  The  knowledge,  then,  that  I  had  duped 
myself  was  bitter  indeed.  But  upon  my  return  from 
Switzerland  I  was  able  to  look  upon  her  memory  with- 
out a  tremor.  I  regarded  her  as  inaccessible  to  me  as 


218 


is  a  star  which  may  offer  light  but  no  warmth.  In  this 
state  I  came  back  to  my  wife,  and  after  the  storm  and 
stress  of  my  wandering  Eleanor  appeared  to  me  like  a 
refuge  of  peace.  Whether  the  change  lay  in  her  or  my- 
self, or  both  of  us,  I  did  not  question,  but  I  suddenly 
saw  her  as  I  had  never  seen  her  before — I  saw  her  in- 
dividuality ;  she  was  no  longer  to  me  merely  the  pretty 
girl  with  whom  I  happened  to  be  travelling,  whether  I 
would  or  no.  She  had  been  obscured  before,  as  a  star 
is  by  the  moon.  I  suddenly  realized  her  womanliness, 
which  was  deeper  than  I  had  ever  cared  to  know, 
and  I  wanted  her  forgiveness.  I  needed  her  tenderness 
and  kindness,  and,  to  my  surprise,  she  gave  all.  It 
was  pity,  probably,  but  it  was  more  than  I  had  hoped 
for.  And,  presently,  I  did  not  want  her  pity.  My  one 
desire  became  to  make  her  love  me.  I  had  her  to  my- 
self and  I  did  not  despair.  But  it  never  became  more 
than  the  gracious  sweetness  of  a  woman  who  wishes  to 
make  herself  as  true  a  wife  as  she  was  one  inevitably. 
God  bless  her  for  the  endeavor,  at  any  rate.  Brunton  ?" 

His  hand  fell  like  a  weight  upon  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Well  ?"  returned  Geoffrey,  the  old  charm  Kenyon's 
personality  had  always  wielded  over  him  breaking  down 
the  denunciation  of  his  former  attitude. 

**  Nothing."  He  strode  on  as  if  striving  to  outrun  his 
thoughts  and  footsteps.  "  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,"  he  added, 
presently,  "  you  can  guess,  perhaps,  the  torment  I  under- 
went on  board  that  steamer,  going  and  returning  and 
during  the  four  intervening  days,  with  no  means  of  com- 
munication to  her  who  I  now  knew  had  become  all  in 
all  to  me !  If  you  can't  guess,  I  have  simply  wasted 
time  in  trying  to  gain  your  leniency,  not  for  myself — 


219 


what  do  I  care  what  you  think  of  me  ?  I  must  have 
your  assistance !  I  have  lost  too  much  time  already. 
Do  you  care  to  help  me  2"  he  demanded,  shortly. 

"  I  want  to,  yes.  But — I  confess  I  am  a  little  doubt- 
ful. I  will  help  you,  upon  one  condition." 

"  Name  it !     What  is  your  condition,  Brunton  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  appear  so  officious,"  said  Geoffrey,  in 
slow  cautiousness,  "  but,  in  all  conscientiousness,  I  could 
not  honestly  aid  you  in  finding  your  wife  with  one  doubt 
in  my  mind.  I  want  you  to  go  to  this  other  woman  ;  I 
want  you  to  speak  to  her,  to  hold  her  hand.  After  that, 
if  you  find  yourself  as  you  now  believe  yourself  to  be, 
I  shall  move  heaven  and  earth  to  aid  you  in  your  search. 
You  have  told  me  a  peculiar  history,  and  the  case  needs 
peculiar  procedure,  peculiar — certitude." 

"  Then,"  said  Kenyon,  moving  away  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  "  I  shall  go  at  once.  The  task  is  easy  !  I  shall 
not  be  more  than  an  hour  at  the  utmost,  after  which — 
where  can  I  meet  you  ?" 

"  At  my  room  at  the Club,"  he  answered,  giv- 
ing him  the  address.  "  Bon  voyage!"  He  turned  away, 
and  Kenyon  walked  southward  down  the  hill. 

Brunton  took  out  a  cigar  and  prepared  to  smoke. 
"  It's  a  strange  thing,"  he  mused,  as  he  strolled  on,  "  to 
see  a  man,  otherwise  wanting  in  everything  approaching 
formal  religion,  turn  to  the  Power  in  moments  of  moral 
excitement  as  naturally  as  children  turn  to  their  mothers 
in  time  of  need.  Is  it  his  faith  at  bottom,  or  only  spirit- 
ual ecstasy?  Is  it  an  acknowledgment  of  a  God  beyond 
our  knowledge,  or  only  exclamations  taking  the  name  as- 
sociated through  habit  with  that  into  which  one's  rea- 
son may  not  enter  ?  It  is  an  impressive  sign  of  human 


220 


impotence,  whatever  its  origin !  Ah,  a  good  cigar  is 
more  satisfying  than  the  clearest  elucidation  of  the 
most  vexed  problem !"  His  head  was  clouded  in  the 
fragrant  fumes.  He  walked  on  in  a  disturbed  mood. 
He  drew  out  his  watch  presently  and  saw  that  it  was 
half -past  eight.  "Poor  wretch!"  he  apostrophized. 
"  He's  had  his  fling  with  sportive  fate,  I  take  it,  if  he 
does  not  overdo  it  to-night.  Peculiar  nature  ;  this  busi- 
ness of  love-making  to  the  exclusion  of  weightier  inter- 
ests is,  I  suppose,  the  province  of  all  artists,  as  well  as 
of  women  and — novelists.  But  where  can  that  girl  be  ? 
She  is  capable  of  any  folly  when  in  a  fury.  She  always 
did  give  Constance  more  concern  than  all  the  others  to- 
gether. Too  much  like  that  charming,  fiery  husband  of 
hers.  I  hope  she  has  not  —  but  no,  I  won't  think  of  it. 
If  we  only  find  her  it  will  be  a  pretty  efficacious  cure  for 
both  of  them.  I  wonder  who  the  woman  was  whom  he 
imagined  he  loved.  The  genuine  article  does  not  give 
under  so  easily,  no  matter  what  considerations  you  bring 
to  bear  against  it.  Honor  and  circumstance  !  Twaddle ! 
When  you  Jove,  you  love,  and  no  change  can  kill  it, 
though  it  may  alter  or  perhaps  die  of  starvation,  non- 
fulfilment  even  of  sight.  But,  after  all,  this  ghost  which 
he  thinks  so  securely  buried  may  rise  again.  I  hope 
not.  If  it  should,  Kenyon  won't  meet  me  to-night." 

He  sauntered  on  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  striv- 
ing to  imagine  Eleanor  Kenyon's  possible  whereabouts, 
the  uncomfortable  gravity  of  the  question  seeming  to 
grow  greater  as  he  dwelt  upon  it.  "  By  Heaven !"  he 
thought,  abruptly,  "  what  a  benighted  fool  I  am  !  I  have 
forgotten  all  about  Constance !  If  any  one  can  help  us 
now,  she  can.  Yet  how  can  I  approach  her  with  this 


221 


bewildering  intelligence  ?  Another  agony  for  her  ?" 
His  brows  were  knit  hard,  his  lips  pressed  close. 
"  Well,"  he  decided,  finally,  "  I  dare  not  keep  it  from 
her.  It  seems  decreed  that  she  shall  suffer  all  that  is  to 
be  suffered !  We  need  her  more  intimate  knowledge." 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  can  make  it,"  he  considered. 
"  It  won't  take  many  minutes  to  prepare  her — she  is  not 
a  fainting  woman — and  perhaps  she  can  think  of  some- 
thing yet  to-night.  If  Kenyon  gets  to  the  club  before  me 
he  can  wait."  Geoffrey  gave  a  shrill  whistle  to  the  pass- 
ing car,  ran  toward  it,  sprang  on  as  it  slightly  slackened, 
and  the  next  instant  was  gliding  on  to  Constance. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  walked  up  the  steps  of  the  Her- 
riotts'  home,  in  a  somewhat  slow  manner.  He  was  con- 
sidering how  best  to  break  the  news  of  Kenyon's  return 
without  too  severely  shocking  her  belief  in  Eleanor's 
having  been  with  him  throughout  her  silence.  But  two 
days  had  elapsed  since  Nan's  passing?  and  Constance's 
quiet  grief  had  impressed  all  who  cared  for  her  with  the 
pathetic  knowledge  that  the  going  of  the  little  blind 
child  had  left  a  wide  void  which  no  tenderness  could 
fill.  Constance  had  never  possessed  a  confidant  for  her 
inner  life ;  but  this  frail  child,  like  the  blind  fish  of  the 
cave,  had  been  furnished  with  an  organism  so  sensitive 
that  she  had  perceived  presences  quite  imperceptible  to 
any  light-illumined  eye.  It  was  this  unchildish,  spiritual 
insight  to  which,  though  wordless,  Constance  had  grown 
accustomed,  and  for  the  loss  of  which  there  could  be  no 
compensation.  Her  going  had  left  a  coldness  which 
would  some  day  add  strongly  to  Constance  Herriott's 
stern  reticence.  Geoffrey  rang  the  bell  with  evident  reluc- 
tance. 


222 


"  Is  Miss  Herriott  in,  Kate  ?"  he  asked  of  the  maid 
who  admitted  him. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brunton,  but — "  .  Her  speech  hesitated,  and 
she  moved  away  as  Brunton,  having  laid  down  his  hat, 
turned  toward  the  drawing-room.  He  discerned  Con- 
stance standing  upon  the  threshold,  and  another  form 
dimly  visible  in  the  brightly -lighted  apartment  be- 
yond. 

He  carne  forward  in  some  uncertainty.  "  Good-even- 
ing, Constance,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand,  keenly  con- 
scious of  the  unwonted  silence  of  her  greeting.  "  Did 
I — "  The  sentence  broke  upon  his  lips  as  he  confront- 
ed Kenyon.  His  face  turned  red.  He  stood  without 
speaking  for  several  seconds,  his  stunned  senses  slow- 
ly rearranging  themselves  to  meet  this  new,  hitherto 
unexpected  point  of  view.  Kenyon  met  his  glance  with 
simple  dignity. 

Constance  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  obvious 
surprise.  "  I  thought  you  knew  that  Hall  was  here," 
she  murmured,  moving  nearer.  Brunton  turned  upon 
her  quickly. 

"  Ye — yes,"  he  stammered,  "  certainly."  Then,  observ- 
ing her  great  pallor,  he  wheeled  up  a  chair  for  her.  "  Sit 
down,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I'm  afraid  Kenyon  has  un- 
nerved you.  I  should  have  come — I  came — to  prepare 
you."  As  she  seated  herself  he  turned  to  Kenyon, 
who  was  still  standing.  u  Were  you  going  ?"  he  asked, 
abruptly. 

"  I  was  going  to  meet  you,  as  we  had  agreed,"  replied 
Kenyon,  steadily. 

"  Yes,  but  having  met  here  we  can  find  no  better 
place  to  discuss  the  trouble.  Constance  will  aid  us  more 


223 


than  any  one  —  that  is,  if  the  arrangement  would  be 
agreeable  to  you." 

"  Quite."  He  leaned  against  the  piano  in  an  attitude 
of  one  to  whom  the  leisurely  comfort  of  a  chair  would 
have  been  an  impossibility. 

Brunton  seated  himself  at  some  distance  from  Con- 
stance. She  sat  between  them,  the  woman  to  whose 
strength  all  had  recourse  in  weakness  or  adversity,  silent 
now  and  nerveless,  her  black  gown  deepening  the  pallor 
of  her  countenance.  An  unbroken  stillness  hung  heavi- 
ly over  them. 

"  This  is  frightful,  Geoffrey  !"  she  exclaimed,  at  last,  in 
the  low  tone  which  accompanies  the  moment  immediate- 
ly succeeding  stupefaction.  Her  hands  clasped  the  chair 
arms  in  a  perceptible  strain  ;  her  eyes  sought  Brunton's 
in  distress. 

"It  may  look  worse  than  it  is,"  he  assured  her,  as 
brightly  as  he  could.  "  What  we  must  do  now  is  to  try 
to  recall  every  place  where  there  is  a  possibility  of  her 
having  flown.  Can  you  think  of  any  such  place  ?" 

"  Of  none  where  she  would  have  gone  alone.  Griff 
will  move  entirely  off  the  track." 

"Griff?"  questioned  Kenyon. 

She  turned  to  him  and  explained  that  they  had  tele- 
graphed to  Griff,  telling  him  of  their  departure,  but  sup- 
posing that  they  were  together,  and  asking  him,  Griff, 
to  endeavor  to  learn  their  whereabouts,  as  the  silence  had 
made  them  apprehensive.  "  He  wrote  that  he  would 
move  westward  at  once,"  she  continued,  "  and  make  in- 
quiries at  all  corners  which  he  thought  might  suggest 
themselves  to  you  as  good  stepping-off  places.  Of  course 
he  has  been  looking  for  two." 


224 


"  Yes,"  he  answered,  his  slender  hand,  hanging  over 
the  piano,  clinching  itself  unconsciously.  "You  said 
she  wrote  she  was  coming  to  me,"  he  added.  "  Do  you 
think  she  had  any  intimation  of  my  whereabouts  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know — I  do  not  think  so.  But  if  she  had 
had,  do  you  think  she  would  have  started  for  you — to 
Honolulu?" 

"  No.  I  don't  think  she  would  have  gone  anywhere — 
for  me." 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Brunton,  sharply. 

"  Why  should  she  ?"  returned  Kenyon. 

"  Hall  means,"  explained  Constance,  carefully,  "  that 
she  would  not  have  been  likely  to  go  to  him,  even  had 
she  known  where  he  was,  without  his  having  sent  for 
her."  Whatever  shadow  of  the  past  may  have  rested 
upon  this  meeting  between  husband  and  sister,  it  was 
swallowed  up — lost — in  the  calamity  of  the  moment. 

"Is  that  it?"  demanded  Brunton. 

"  Partly.  But  let  the  question  drop.  She  had  no  in- 
tention of  coming  to  me." 

"  Why  did  you  ask,  then,  whether  she  had  any  knowl- 
edge of  your  location  ?" 

«  For — folly  !  What's  the  good  of  this  cross-examina- 
tion ?  Let  us  get  to  something  definite.  I  don't  think 
she  has  gone  far." 

"  Why  not  ?"  questioned  Brunton  again. 

"  I  don't  know  why,  but  that  is  my  conviction." 

"It  certainly  is  definite.  However,  we  must  employ 
a  detective.  Her  movements  must  be  traced  from  the 
moment  of  her  leaving  this  house." 

"  We  must  find  the  maids,"  suggested  Constance. 
"  We  might  advertise  for  them." 


225 


"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Brunton,  jotting  down  a  word  or 
two  in  a  little  note -book.  "Do  you  remember  their 
names  ?" 

"  Marie and  Gretchen ." 

•'Good.  They  may  furnish  us  with  a  clew.  Were 
you  thinking  of  any  particular  place,  Kenyon,  when  you 
made  that  assertion  of  her  nearness  a  moment  ago  ?" 

"  No." 

"  What  prompted  the  idea  ?" 

«  Eleanor." 

The  curt  answer  silenced  them  curiously.  Kenyon 
suddenly  began  to  walk  the  floor.  Constance  shuddered 
violently. 

"What  was  that  thought?"  asked  Brunton,  conscious 
of  her  every  movement. 

"Geoffrey — suppose — she  has — done  away  with  her- 
self !" 

Kenyon  wheeled  around  at  the  low,  terror-laden  words, 
his  eyes  blazing  in  his  white  face.  "  Hush !"  he  com- 
manded, gruffly.  "  How  dare  you  fancy  such  a  thing?" 

"  From  my  knowledge  of  her." 

"  Knowledge  ?     What  knowledge  ?" 

"  Of  her  reckless,  violent  temper." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  She  had  no  tem- 
per," he  asserted,  roughly.  "  She  was  quite  passionless." 

They  returned  his  gaze  with  wonder.  But  the  next 
moment  Constance  remembered  the  marked  change  she 
herself  had  noted  in  the  girl's  manner  the  day  of  her  ar- 
rival, also  Eleanor's  confession  of  her  constant  straining 
and  feigning  to  attain  this  effect. 

"  Your  words  are  astounding,"  she  heard  Brunton 
saying.  "  Eleanor  Herriott  had  a  remarkably  stormy 

15 


226 


nature.  The  characteristic  was  so  pronounced  that  any 
one  interested  in  her  was  often  fearful  for  her.'* 

"  You  are  mad,"  returned  Kenyon,  with  a  wretched 
laugh,  as  he  turned  away  and  continued  his  monotonous 
tread.  He  paused  as  he  passed  Constance.  "  Is  that 
true  ?"  he  asked,  indistinctly. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  burying  her  face  from  his  tort- 
ured gaze. 

"  Well,  she  had  utterly  changed,  then,"  he  asserted, 
in  a  thick  undertone.  "  And  —  Have  you  any  old 
papers  ?" 

"  Papers  ?" 

"  Journals — of  the  past  few  weeks." 

"  I  think  so.     I  will  look." 

As  she  moved  from  the  room  Brunton  came  over  to 
Kenyon.  "  I'm  inexpressibly  sorry  for  you,"  he  said,  in 
honest  sincerity.  "  But  don't  despair  ;  I  am  convinced 
we'll  find  her.  She  has  been  gone  only  three  weeks,  you 
know." 

Kenyon  stared  at  him  dumbly.  Constance  returned 
shortly  witli  a  number  of  old  Chronicles,  which  Ken- 
yon received  from  her  with  a  word  of  thanks.  He  seated 
himself  and  began  scanning  them  carefully,  the  only 
sound  in  the  room  being  the  crackling  of  the  newspaper 
as  he  turned  the  pages.  The  other  two  watched  him 
silently,  wondering  what  his  painful,  unexplained  search 
among  the  daily  annals  could  portend.  His  colorless 
lips  were  compressed  in  a  hard  line,  his  eyes  ran  up  and 
down  the  columns  with  startling  rapidity  and  minute  in- 
telligence. Sometimes  they  saw  him  turn  back  to  reread 
an  article.  Once  a  slight  sound  escaped  him,  and  his 
face  turned  deathly  as  he  read,  but  the  next  minute  he 


227 


had  flung  the  paper  from  him,  with  the  muttered  explana- 
tion, "  Thank  God !" 

Constance  presently  felt  his  dark  eyes  resting  question- 
ingly  upon  her.  "  Little  Nan  ?"  he  asked,  in  sad  gen- 
tleness. 

She  bent  her  head  acquiescently. 

"  I  did  not  know.  Forgive  me,"  he  entreated,  "  for 
bringing  my  trouble  to  you." 

"  It  is  my  trouble,  too,  Hall,"  she  said,  with  the  brave 
fortitude  of  custom. 

And  later,  when  they  rose  to  go,  he  raised  her  hand 
to  his  lips.  "  It  is  good  not  to  be  alone  in  time  of  loss 
— or  strife,"  he  said,  simply,  in  the  expressionless  tone 
which  expressed  so  much  to  her. 

She  gathered  together  the  papers  he  had  read  with 
such  avidity.  As  she  picked  up  the  one  he  had  thrown 
from  him  she  moved  with  it  under  the  chandelier.  It 
was  still  folded  where  he  had  read  to  the  page  contain- 
ing the  important  local  news  of  the  day.  She  remarked 
nothing  at  a  glance  that  could  have  arrested  his  atten- 
tion :  there  was  a  reported  interview  with  a  celebrated 
visiting  explorer,  an  account  of  a  murder  trial,  some 
theatrical  notes,  a —  She  had  discovered  the  cause  of 
his  inexplicable  disturbance.  It  was  simply  the  sad,  every- 
day story  of  the  suicide  of  an  unknown,  beautiful  young 
girl,  who  had  taken  into  her  own  hands  the  only  means 
of  stilling  despair  and  disgrace.  As  Constance  reached 
the  closing  paragraph  the  suffocating  weight  upon  her 
breath  lifted.  The  "fair  unfortunate"  had  been  "flaxen- 
haired  and  blue-eyed." 

"  Thank  God  !"  she,  too,  murmured,  as  though  repeat- 
ing Kenyon's  unexplained  train  of  thought.  And  with 


228 


.  convic- 


the  explanation  came  the  inexplicable  but  settled 
tion  that  self-destruction  would  not  prove  the  cause  of 
Eleanor's  disappearance.  As  long  as  Kenyon  lived,  life 
would  hold  jealous  dominion  of  her  battling  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HAD  the  earth  suddenly  opened  in  some  obscure  cor- 
ner to  ingulf  her,  Eleanor  Kenyon  could  not  have  more 
completely  vanished  from  detection. 

Every  known  medium  and  device  at  the  command  of 
man  was  summoned  to  the  assistance  of  the  baffling  task, 
except  that  of  open  newspaper  advertising.  That  her 
disappearance  had  been  deliberately  planned  by  herself 
there  was  no  mistaking.  They  discovered  that  on  the 
morning  of  her  going  she  had  visited  the  bank  and 
drawn  two  thousand  dollars  in  paper-money,  a  fact  which 
should  have  gone  far  toward  assuring  them  that  she 
was  materially  protected.  Yet  the  knowledge  that  she 
had  had  so  large  a  sum  upon  her  person  gave  play  to 
grave  fears  to  those  whose  love  was  following  her  in 
every  possible  danger  of  life.  Griff,  slowly  moving  west- 
ward, was  quietly  conducting  the  search  from  the  east 
end  of  the  continent;  but  Kenyon,  still  strongly  imbued 
with  the  belief  of  her  proximity,  gave  all  his  attention 
to  California  and,  most  indefatigably,  the  city  environs. 

This  dominant  idea,  which  held  him  in  an  absolute 
tyranny,  soon  began  to  communicate  itself  to  Constance, 
Brunton,  and  Briggs,  the  detective.  Griff's  messages 
were  scarcely  noted.  There  were  days  when  they  would 
lose  all  sight  and  knowledge  of  Kenyon,  only  to  see  him 
return  from  some  wild  dash  into  the  interior,  worn  and 
haggard,  but  never  utterly  discouraged,  explaining  that 


230 


he  had  remembered  her  mentioning  such  or  such  a  place 
once  in  converse.  Far  from  discountenancing  these  fruit- 
less wanderings,  Constance  herself  had  several  times 
bidden  Grace  and  Marjorie  good-bye  in  the  morning,  and 
gone  off  to  odd  byways  which  they  had  passed  and  com- 
mented upon  in  the  olden  summers.  There  was  no  stone 
too  heavy  or  inconvenient  for  their  turning.  But  the 
weeks  dragged  into  months,  and  no  echo  came  to  all 
their  crying  into  the  silent  woods. 

People  were  out  of  town.  The  Herriotts'  movements 
were  less  constrained  in  consequence,  and  Kenyon's  fit- 
ful appearances  in  the  city  without  his  wife  remained 
unremarked — at  least,  to  Constance.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  Herriott  house  was  sadly  changed.  Only  little 
Marjorie,  singing  in  childish  innocence  and  unconcern 
through  the  almost  silent  house,  now  and  then  recalled 
the  ghost  of  its  former  sunshine  and  gayety.  She  had 
never  lost  her  baby  infatuation  for  Kenyon,  and  when  he 
would  come  to  them,  weary,  tormented,  and  dejected, 
the  child's  arms  about  his  neck,  her  pretty  caresses  and 
crooning  prattle  soothed  him  as  nothing  else  could.  The 
sense  of  kinship  is  never  more  comforting  or  strongly 
felt  than  in  time  of  trouble ;  Kenyon  yielded  to  it  in- 
sensibly. Between  him  and  Constance  rested  the  silent 
understanding  of  each  other  with  which  the  memory 
of  the  past  endowed  them.  It  had  been  the  forerun- 
ner of  his  quiet  deference  to  her  now  in  every  circum- 
stance. She  liked  to  have  him  come  to  them  so  natural- 
ly when  he  was  in  town,  and  despite  her  own  fears  the 
sight  of  his  changed  face,  which  bore  no  trace  of  its 
former  youth  in  its  haggard  leanness,  filled  her  with 
a  longing  tenderness  and  pity  for  his  torturing  self- 


231 


reproach,  and  she  strove,  as  best  she  could,  to  make 
him  forget  his  misery.  Occasionally  he  would  make  a 
strenuous  effort  and  talk  to  them  in  a  quiet,  interesting 
strain  for  a  while ;  he  would  even  smile  when  Grace  re- 
peated some  merry  anecdote  or  tale  of  the  day's  con- 
cerns which  she  had  carefully  fostered  for  his  distrac- 
tion. But  more  often  he  would  sit  for  an  hour,  quite 
silent,  with  Marjorie  on  his  knee,  and  then,  suddenly, 
with  a  muttered  word  of  apology,  put  her  down,  rise, 
and  leave  the  house.  And  upon  Constance's  face  the 
haunting  corrosion  of  care  began  to  leave  deep  traces. 

As  the  months  slipped  away  she  would  have  caught  at 
their  fleeting  skirts  and  implored  them  to  pause,  to  go 
more  slowly  toward  the  catastrophe  of  utter  hopeless- 
ness. But  August  was  merging  into  September,  people 
were  returning  to  town,  and  the  privacy  of  their  strange 
trouble  was  no  longer  assured  to  them. 

Kenyon  had  come  in  one  afternoon,  and  Constance 
had  just  entered  the  drawing-room,  when  Mrs.  Ferris 
was  announced.  She  had  been  away  since  Nan's  death, 
and  had  come  to  pay  her  visit  of  condolence.  She 
entered  clad  in  the  stereotyped  solemnity  of  consola- 
tion. She  seated  herself  as  though  the  very  chairs  must 
be  approached  softly.  She  gazed  in  deep-eyed  solici- 
tude upon  the  object  of  her  sympathy  when  the  latter 
assured  her  that  she  was  quite  well. 

"But  you  do  not  look  it,"  mourned  Mrs.  Ferris. 
"  Have  you  been  ill,  Mr.  Kenyon  ?"  With  impartial  in- 
terest  her  head  turned  toward  him. 

"No,"  answered  Kenyon,  courteously,  "though  I  be- 
lieve I  have  lost  flesh." 

"  And  your  sweet  wife — is  she  with  you  ?" 


232 


"  She  is  still  away." 

"  That  must  be  loneliness." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  inevitable." 

"Circumstance  is  not  always  yielding,  I  suppose,  even 
to  a  man  of  your  pursuits.  And  yet,  despite  our  crosses, 
we  live  and  breathe."  It  was  then  time  to  sigh,  and 
Mrs.  Ferris  led  the  charge  valiantly.  The  carte  de  visile 
of  her  emotions  had  the  condolence  corner  turned  down  ; 
and  her  well-trained  muscles  responded,  like  good  sol- 
diers, to  the  call. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  with  a  slow  shake  of  the  head, 
"  in  moments  of  grief  nature  seems  almost  vulgar  when 
it  proceeds  unconcernedly  upon  its  wonted  round  of  di- 
gestion and  assimilation.  But,  as  I  have  often  said,  it  is 
by  divine  provision  and  intervention  that  we  are  being 
looked  after  at  such  a  time  when  we  might  grow  indif- 
ferent. Providence  is  never  off  on  sick-leave,  or  drying 
its  eyes,  or  on  an  excursion  for  amusement  only.  Prov- 
idence is  a  hard  worker.  Well,  well,  as  the  Masonic 
service  has  it,  'So  mote  it  be.'  You  have  heard  the 
funeral  services,  Miss  Herriott  ?" 

"  Once." 

"  Impressive,  are  they  not  ?  Of  course,  it  seems  heart- 
less to  consider  such  things  while  a  man  is  alive — just  as 
it  shocks  one  when  one's  husband  mentions  his  life- 
insurance  policy ;  but  I  have  insisted  upon  Mr.  Ferris's 
giving  his  consent  to  being  buried  by  the  order,  with  all 
the  ceremonies.  It  must  be  a  consolation  to  know  that 
there  will  be  no  unseemly  haste  at  one's  final  lowering. 
Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

"  What  will  it  matter  after  we  are  dead  ?" 

"  Nothing  to  the  dead ;  but  think  how  comforting  the 


233 


idea  of  solemnity  and  prestige  will  appear  to  the  one 
about  to  die.  It  gives  him  a  proper  estimate  of  his  im- 
portance to  the  world,  and  is  such  an  adequate  expression 
of  the  mourners'  voiceless  grief." 

"  Do  you  not  think  we  can  mourn  as  deeply  without 
the  outward  signs  ?"  asked  Constance,  gently.  "  Grief  is 
not  expressed  in  ceremonies  or  the  dye  of  the  wool  of 
one's  gown." 

"  Black  makes  you  look  quite  pale,  or  is  it  that  white 
shawl,  Miss  Herriott  ?  The  house  must  seem  very  large 
to  you  now."  A  profound  sigh  punctuated  this  senti- 
ment. 

"Yes,"  replied  Constance.  She  could  not  speak  of 
her  little  folded-away  flower  to  this  woman,  with  her  re- 
marks fitted  to  the  occasion  like  umbrellas  unfurled  in 
time  of  rain. 

"Eleanor  gone,"  proceeded  the  ferret -eyed  one, 
"Edith  away.  By-the-bye,  what  do  you  hear  from  her? 
Excellent  reports,  I  have  understood.  Is  she  quite  well, 
and  does  she  like  it  ?  I  suppose  Grace  misses  her,  though 
I  have  heard  that  Grace,  too,  shows  signs  of  flitting." 

"  Grace  ?"  repeated  Constance.  "  Oh  no,  I  need  Grace 
yet,  you  know." 

"  But,  my  dear  woman,  it  is  just  when  one  needs  a 
young  girl  most  that  she  seems  to  be  needed  more  per- 
emptorily by  some  one  else.  And,  seriously,"  with  an  in- 
advertent sigh,  "  you  should  not  complain  if  she  wants 
to  leave  you.  We  bring  up  a  girl  with  the  sole  purpose 
of  making  her  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  some  possible  bid- 
der." 

Constance  smiled,  when  Mrs.  Ferris  had  left,  over  the 
suggestion  that  Grace  could  be  the  subject  of  gossip. 


234 


She  knew  that  young  Glynn  was  a  frequent  visitor  and 
attentive  friend  of  the  girl,  and  her  smile  abruptly 
changed  to  one  of  serious  thought.  She  explained  her 
visitor's  innuendo  to  Kenyon  in  the  confidential  way  into 
which  they  had  fallen  since  a  common  adversity  had 
thrown  them  together. 

"  Don't  be  disturbed  about  Grace,"  he  said.  "  She 
will  never  marry  any  but  a  man  with  whom  her  happi- 
ness will  be  assured." 

Constance  was  called  away  just  then,  and  Kenyon, 
walking  over  to  the  window,  was  startled  to  see  Caroll 
Glynn  standing  with  Grace  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  tak- 
ing an  apparently  lingering  leave  of  her.  His  honest, 
intelligent  face  was  alive  with  interest  while  she  spoke, 
and  Kenyon  hastily  drew  back. 

A  moment  later  she  came  in  softly  humming.  She 
had  some  spicy,  dark  red  pinks  in  her  hand,  and  a  faint 
reflection  of  their  color  was  in  her  cheeks.  Kenyon's 
eyes  rested  upon  her  with  quiet  satisfaction. 

"You  here,  Hall?"  she  exclaimed,  coming  up  to  him 
with  the  girlish,  artistic  delight  she  always  felt  at  sight 
of  his  fine  head  and  presence.  "Let  me  put  one  of 
these  pinks  in  your  button-hole — they  are  so  fragrant. 
Caroll  Glynn  gave  them  to  me  just  now.  I  met  him 
down-town  and  he  rode  home  with  me.  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 

"  I  met  him  on  the  street  once  with  Brunton.  He  is 
studying  law,  is  he  not?" 

Grace  had  laid  down  the  flowers  and  was  drawing  off 
her  gloves,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  broad  window- 
sill.  The  late  afternoon  sun  blazed  upon  the  glass  and 
shot  flashes  of  gold  from  her  fair  hair.  His  quiet,  sym- 


235 


pathetic  voice  touched  her  with  a  swift  desire  to  make  a 
confidant  of  this  grave,  saddened  man,  who  regarded  her 
with  such  tender  interest. 

"  He  has  gone  into  partnership  with  Steele  &  Grat- 
tan.  Mr.  Steele  is  losing  his  health  and  has  gone  to 
Europe,  and,  as  he  was  the  brains  of  the  firm,  Mr.  Grat- 
tan  has  taken  Caroll  as  a  coming  substitute.  Geoffrey 
says  he  is  recognized  now  as  very  clever.  Geoffrey  says 
a  good  deal  of  it  is  clap-trap,  but  that  it  is  going  to  make 
itself  felt.  Geoffrey  likes  him  immensely.  He  says  he 
is  so  manly."  She  spoke  in  swift,  low  enthusiasm, 
wishing  to  make  clear  that  even  such  a  valued  authority 
as  Geoffrey  Brunton  approved  of  the  man  who  had  found 
favor  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  like  his  face,"  Kenyon  admitted.  "  It  is  what  one 
might  call  trustable." 

"And  that  is  a  great  deal,  is  it  not?"  She  sat  with 
downcast  eyes,  fingering  the  pinks  upon  the  table,  an 
eager,  listening  flush  upon  her  cheek. 

"  It  is  the  best  recommendation  a  man  can  bring,"  he 
replied,  forcibly.  "  I  like  Brunton's  valuations  of  men 
and  things.  He  goes  straight  to  the  core,  and  is  never 
deceived  by  an  attractive  covering  or  frame.  A  great 
many  worthless  books  come  bound  in  morocco." 

"  Oh,"  laughed  Grace,  the  color  deepening  upon  her 
face,  "  Caroll  is  not  very  pretty  to  look  at.  But  a  man 
does  not  need  that  advantage." 

"  Then  it  is  not  by  the  long  nail  on  his  little  finger 
that  he  has  won  your  affectionate  regard  ?"  he  observed, 
with  a  half-smile. 

"  No.  I  require  something  less  brittle.  I  am  not  so 
silly!  If  I  —  if  I  had  a  —  daughter,"  she  went  on,  in 


236 


earnest  bravery,  "  I  would  rather  give  her  to  the  plainest 
farmer  living  who  had  an  honest,  trustworthy  heart  than 
to  the  most  polished  courtier  whose  convictions  might 
change  with  the  season's  fashions.  I  am  woman  enough 
to  know  that  there  are  moments  when  it  is  good  to  feel 
that  a  strong-hearted,  true  man  is  always,  always  at  hand 
to  strengthen  and  uphold  one."  The  young  face  looked 
toward  him  for  approval. 

"  God  help  the  woman  who  does  not  find  such  a 
prop,"  he  returned,  in  bitter  intensity.  "  You  arc  right, 
Grace.  Find  your  right  sort  of  man  4  You  can  let  all 
the  rest  go." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  after  that  and  began  pacing 
the  floor.  The  bitterness  of  self  -  reproach  obliterated 
the  ardent,  sweet-faced  girl  from  his  interest.  Only  the 
memory  of  the  woman  who  had  failed  to  gain  this  sim- 
ple need  filled  mind  and  soul  with  exquisite  remorse 
and  longing,  and  made  all  else  seem  as  shadows. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  warm  yellow  haze  of  late  October  hung  in  the 
noon  air  as  Kenyon  made  his  way  toward  Brunton's 
office.  He  had  been  out  of  town  for  a  week,  and  his 
jaded  appearance  testified  to  the  uselessness  of  his  ex- 
cursion. Discouragement  had  at  last  overtaken  him 
bodily.  She  was  either  dead  or  lost  to  him  forever. 
Not  the  flicker  of  a  smile  came  to  his  heavy  eyes  as 
Joscelyn  accosted  him  with  his  usual  gay  exuberance 
just  before  the  Mills  Building. 

"  Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damned  ?"  he 
exclaimed,  grasping  his  hand.  "  Either  the  grave  or 
gravity  has  got  the  better  of  you.  Why  so  downcast? 
Why,  man,  you  should  be  ablaze  with  stars  and  medals. 
I  suppose  you've  just  got  back  to  sport  your  accumu- 
lated laurels.  I  congratulate  you,  old  fellow.  Never 
thought  you'd  let  yourself  out  as  you  have  in  the  book 
— it  has  caused  a  small  flurry.  You  wear  your  honors 
too  modestly.  Come  to  luncheon  with  me,  and-  we'll 
christen  your  latest  in  becoming  fashion." 

"Thanks — no.  I  don't  understand  your  allusion  in 
the  least.  Whq,t— " 

"  Fudge !  Don't  pretend  indifference  for  glory  to  a 
man  in  the  same  boat  with  yourself.  Ah,  here  comes 
Sire  Coulter.  He  looks  sentimentally  this  way — I'm  off. 
See  you  later  when  less  besieged." 

As  he  moved  along,  a  benignant-faced  old  club-man 


238 


came  up  close  beside  Kenyon,  and  intercepted  his  very 
evident  desire  to  get  away. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  said.  He  stood  leaning  on  his  cane 
held  behind  him,  and  shook  his  head  at  him  sadly. 
"You  dog  of  a  tourist,"  he  slowly  growled,  with  wag- 
gish gravity  and  twinkling  eyes,  "  you  juggler  of  emo- 
tions, you  time  your  entrance  like  a  sensational  Mephis- 
topheles.  You  send  your  literary  fireworks  before  you  ; 
then,  as  they  shoot  up,  appear  on  the  scene  to  get  the 
full  benefit  of  the  *  Ah  !'  Your  heroine  has  made  the 
men  curious,  and  the  women — indignant.  They  want  to 
know  how  you  know,  and  I  say  to  them,  '  Cherchez  la 
feinine,"1  or,  better,  sa  femme  in  this  instance — the  tra- 
ditional influence  still  bearing  fruit.  We  can't  growl  at 
your  acquisition  1  No  silent  geniuses  nowadays — every 
man  with  a  horn  worth  blowing  blows  it ;  and  as  to 
your  last  perpetration,  you're  only  showing  what  you 
paid  for — it  took  a  wife,  God  help  you,  it  took  a  wife  !" 
He  had  been  laughingly  edging  away  as  he  finished,  and 
before  Kenyon  could  voice  his  annoyed  confusion,  the 
garrulous  veteran,  with  a  jaunty  salutation  of  mockery, 
had  turned  the  corner. 

Kenyon  moved  on  with  an  inward  shrug  of  apathy 
over  the  unintelligible  purport  of  their  words.  He  was 
relieved  to  find  Brunton  in  and  disengaged  for  the  hour. 
The  lawyer  looked  up  as  he  entered,  but  made  no  in- 
quiries, his  eye  interpreting  the  harassed  countenance  at 
a  glance. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  pulling  up  a  chair. 

"  Any  mail  ?"  asked  Kenyon,  seating  himself  and  lay- 
ing his  hat  on  the  table.  He  pushed  his  hair  from  his 
brow  as  though  it  molested  him.  Brunton  leaned  back 


239 


to  a  chest  of  small  drawers,  pulled  out  one,  and,  extract- 
ing several  letters,  handed  them  to  him.  He  resumed 
his  own  correspondence,  while  his  companion  quickly 
disposed  of  his  communications. 

"  What  in  thunder  do  they  all  mean  ?" 

Brunton  glanced  up  in  gentle  surprise  at  the  exclama- 
tion of  exasperation.  Kenyon  held  a  letter  in  his  hand ; 
his  brows  were  knit  in  heavy  anger. 

"  What's  the  trouble  ?"  questioned  Brunton,  in  his 
usual  unhurried  manner. 

"No  trouble.  But  here  both  Griff  and  Scott  have 
been  writing  page  after  page  of  jargon  about  a  book 
which  I  never  wrote !  Two  men  on  the  street  surprised 
me  just  now  with  a  similar  peculiar  tirade !  Can  you 
explain  ?" 

"  I  suppose  they  refer  to  your  newest  book." 

"  Which  book  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember  the  name ;  Constance  can  tell  you. 
It  was  she  who  spoke  to  me  of  it.  I  have  not  seen  it. 
She  said  it  had  been  sent  her  from  the  publishers.  She 
supposed  you  had  directed  them  to  send  her  a  copy." 

"  Some  error.  I  have  not  written  a  line  since  my  re- 
turn from  New  York!  A  new  edition,  perhaps  !" 

"Can't  say.  But  Constance  seemed  unusually  im- 
pressed with  it." 

"  Strange  !  Well,"  he  decided,  rising  wearily,  "  I'll 
go  out  to  see  her  and  investigate  the  piracy.  Er — any 
news?" 

"  Nothing  worth  discussing.  Briggs  was  in  a  day  or 
two  ago  for  a  photograph.  Constance  had  none  of  her 
taken  later  than  six  years  ago,  when  she  was  seventeen. 
It  is  quite  inadequate  for  his  purpose,  I  am  afraid,  but 


240 


the  best  we  could  give.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any- 
thing more  like  her  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Kenyon  ;  "  Scott  asked  for  a  water-color 
of  her  before  we  left,  and  I  had  this  done  from  it."  He 
drew  out  his  watch,  opened  the  under  lid,  and  passed  it 
to  Brunton.  The  latter  took  it,  holding  it  closely  to  his 
eyes  for  inspection.  It  was  Eleanor's  pictured  head 
burned  into  the  gold  of  the  watch-case ;  but  Brunton  had 
never  seen  her  with  just  that  thoughtful  look  of  woman- 
hood in  her  eyes,  nor  the  gentle  musing  upon  her  lips — 
the  face  seemed  unfamiliar  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  without  further  comment,  in  his  cus- 
tomary undemonstrative  fashion,  returning  it  to  its  owner. 
But  as  Kenyon's  hand  touched  it,  he  drew  it  back.  "  I 
suppose  this  is  a  good  likeness  ?"  he  suggested. 

"  Perfect !" 

"Well  —  um-m  —  had  you  not  better  leave  it  for 
Briggs?" 

Kenyon  hesitated.  "  Perhaps,"  he  acquiesced,  finally. 
As  Brunton  separated  the  fob  and  handed  it  to  him,  he 
added,  "  I  am  going  to  resort  to  the  newspapers  to-mor- 
row. It  is  my  last  throw.  Some  casual  reader  may  help 
us." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,  Kenyon.  When  she  returns,  the 
knowledge  of  the  publicity  will  hurt  her  mercilessly." 

"  When  she  returns  !  Good  heavens,  Brunton,  haven't 
you  got  over  that  insanity  yet  ?  I  have  given  in.  Do 
you  think  /  would  court  this  notoriety  for  her  if  I  were 
not  pushed  to  the  wall  ?  It's  a  wretched  means,  but  a 
desperate  hope." 

"At  least  be  discreet,  Kenyon;  consult  Constance 
about  it." 


241 


"  I  intend  to.  Ask  Briggs  to  be  circumspect,  and — 
careful  with  that  picture,  will  you  ?  Good-bye." 

He  met  Constance  on  the  door-step.  "  You  are  going 
out,"  he  said,  shaking  her  hand  in  the  quiet  greeting 
which  characterized  their  meetings  in  those  days.  "  Do 
not  go  back,"  he  rejoined,  hastily,  as  she  moved  to  re- 
turn with  him,  "  I  shall  come  again  this  evening." 

"  You  are  ill,  Hall,  or  have  heard  something." 

"  Oh  no;  there  is  nothing  to-  be  heard.  I  have  given 
it  up,  Constance." 

"  Don't  do  that,"  she  implored. 

They  spoke  so  low  their  colloquy  was  almost  whis- 
pered ;  no  one  passing  and  noting  their  unmoved  exteri- 
ors would  have  guessed  at  the  desperate  nature  of  their 
converse. 

"  There  is  one  more  chance — but  I  will  discuss  it  with 
you  this  evening.  Don't  let  me  detain  you.  Is  Marjorie 
in?" 

"  No  ;  she  is  at  school." 

"N'importe  !  I'll  walk  down  the  street  with  you.  Oh, 
by-the-way,  have  you  that  new  book  of  mine,  of  which 
one  hears  so  much  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  just  finished  it.  It  is —  I  cannot  speak 
of  it." 

He  looked  at  her  speculatively  as  they  descended  the 
steps  and  stopped  shortly.  His  curiosity  was  beginning 
to  be  piqued.  "  I  should  like  to  see  it.  No,  don't  turn 
back ;  I  can  find  it  if  you  will  tell  me  where  it  is." 

**  Well " — she  considered — "  it  is  on  the  small  table 
near  the  east  window,  in  the  library.  Are  you  going  in  ?" 
She  never  combated  an  unimportant  point  of  etiquette, 
letting  inclination  decide  the  question  at  its  ease. 

16 


242 


%"  Yes.  Good-afternoon."  She  turned  away  as  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  servants  knew  him  now  as  one  of  the  family,  and 
he  went  into  the  library  with  a  word  of  explanation.  He 
found  the  book  where  she  had  indicated,  and  a  line  of 
amusement  showed  about  his  eyes  as  he  recognized  the 
usual  dark  binding  of  his  previously  published  writings, 
and  read  his  name  under  the  unfamiliar  title.  He  opened 
at  the  title-page,  glanced  through  the  list  of  his  works, 
and  turned  to  the  next  fly-leaf.  "A  Message  to  If.  K." 
he  read  on  it.  "  I  have  been  inditing  to  an  unknown 
friend,"  he  mused,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Or —  II.  K.  ? 
Ah  !  my  own  initials."  He  turned  to  the  opening  chap- 
ter. The  sentences  had  the  evasive,  familiar  property  of 
an  echo.  He  seated  himself  in  the  deep  chair  near  the 
window  and  began  to  read. 

A  singular  stillness  fell  upon  and  about  him.  Mar- 
jorie  returned  from  school,  and,  hearing  he  was  within, 
rushed  to  him.  He  put  his  hand  upon  her  cnrls,  and  in 
a  low  tone  bade  her  leave  him.  The  child  went  out, 
hushed  by  the  indescribable  tranquillity  of  his  presence. 
Hour  after  hour  passed,  but  no  one  disturbed  the  ab- 
sorbed reader.  Evening  stole  in  softly,  and  Constance 
came  to  light  the  gas,  her  inherent  delicacy  hesitating 
even  over  this  slight  intrusion.  She  paused  in  her  ad- 
vance into  the  room  as  she  perceived  the  tall  figure  stand- 
ing by  the  window ;  his  hand  rested  high  up  on  the  cas- 
ing, his  head  was  sunk  in  his  arm. 

"  Hall !"  she  ventured,  gently. 

He  turned  at  the  sound.  His  face  was  deathly  white 
in  its  stillness.  He  came  toward  her  at  once. 

"  That  is  not  my  book,  Constance." 


243 


She  started  at  the  profound  calm  of  his  tone,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  a  distance,  as  though  disembodied, 
and  which  she  knew  was  his  expression  of  powerful 
emotiveness. 

"  But  it  is  your  novel,  Hall,"  she  protested,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  No,  it  is  Eleanor's  !  I  gave  the  manuscript  to  her — 
long  ago.  She  has  made  the  story  her  own.  A  word — 
a  whole  passage  here  and  there — the  cold  framework 
filled  out;  she  has  given  it  what  it  wholly  lacked  —  a 
soul !  Her  soul !" 

Constance  regarded  him  mutely.  "  Then,"  she  breathed 
at  last,  "  that  woman  is — Eleanor." 

"In  her  entirety.  Not  the  woman  she  appeared  to 
us,  but  the  woman  she  was !  The  woman  she  wished  to 
be — the  real,  the  ideal.  We  are  all  these  three  in  one. 
She  is  there!" 

"  We  did  not  know  her,  Hall." 

"  Whom  do  we  know  ?"  The  color  rushed  over  his 
face,  and,  receding,  left  him  almost  ghastly.  "  I  have 
read  her  message,"  he  murmured. 

She  mused  a  moment.  "  The  message  of  her  love  ?" 
she  whispered,  as  though  violating  something  sacred,  the 
color  staining  her  own  pure  face.  "  I  have  known  it  for 
a  long  time." 

He  took  her  hand  almost  blindly,  and  bent  his  brow 
upon  it.  Then  he  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked. 

"To  get  her  address." 

"  Her  address  ?" 

"  From  the  publishers.     The  clew  is  found." 

She  turned  giddy  at  the  unexpected  turn  to  which  his 


244 


words  pointed,  and  caught  at  the  door-lintel  as  she  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  hall. 

"  I  shall  wire  to  New  York,"  he  explained,  the  words 
dancing  wildly  upon  one  another's  heels. 

"  Wear  your  hat,  please,"  she  laughed,  tremulously, 
handing  it  to  him.  He  laughed  shortly  as  he  took  it 
from  her,  and  was  out  of  the  door.  "Address  it  from 
here,"  she  called  after  him,  "  and — "  But  he  was  gone. 

It  was  fully  five  hours  after  Kenyon's  return  to  the 
house  that  the  answer  came  to  his  despatch : 

Have  wired  correspondent — must  wait  permission  before 
giving  address. 

And  Kenyon  replied : 
Do  not  delay — delay  fatal. 

Brunton  had  come  in  at  about  nine  o'clock. 

"  Any  news  ?"  he  asked,  struck  by  their  curious  aspect 
of  restrained  excitement.  And  after  Constance  had  ex- 
plained, he  silently  shook  Kenyon's  hand,  and  did  not 
complain  when  the  latter  passed  the  following  hours  in 
pacing  the  floor. 

"  It  was  probably  all  premeditated,"  he  decided.  "Ev- 
erything is  dovetailed  to  a  nicety." 

But  noon  of  the  next  day  came  before  the  feverishly- 
awaited  telegram  arrived.  Kenyon  opened  the  envelope 
with  rigid  fingers.  The  information  was  to  the  point : 

Mrs.  Hall  Kenyon  —  care  Mrs.  Johnson  —  B Isl- 
and— Alameda  County — California. 

He  would  have  staggered  had  not  Constance,  who  had 
been  reading  over  his  shoulder,  laid  her  firm  hand  heavily 
against  him. 


245 


"  Where  is  that,  Geoffrey  ?"  she  asked  of  Brunton,  who, 
in  his  anxiety,  had  just  come  in.  She  took  the  paper 
from  Kenyon's  nerveless  fingers  and  passed  it  to  him. 

"  B Island  ?"  read  Brunton.   "  Never  heard  of  it." 

"  Nor  I,  and  I  have  lived  here  all  my  life." 

They  regarded  each  other  with  stern  faces. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Kenyon,  in  indistinct  impatience ; 
"  there  must  be  such  a  place.  How  would  they  know  ? 
It  will  be  easily  located.  I'll  find  out  down  at  the  wharf 
and  telephone  you  the  answer." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Brunton. 

A  half-hour  later  the  following  dialogue  vibrated  over 
the  wires : 

"  Is  that  you,  Constance  ?" 

"  Yes.     Is  it  all  right  ?" 

"All  right.  It  is  connected  with  the  mainland  by 
bridges.  I  am  going  on  the  half-past  one  boat.  Good- 
bye." 

She  rang  him  up  sharply. 

"Hall!" 

"  Yes !" 

"  Listen  to  me.  Be  reasonable.  Let  me  go.  I  will 
send  for  you  at  once  if  all  is  well." 

"Are  you  mad  ?    How  can  you  demand  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  You  may  make  her  ill.  We  know  nothing  of  her 
condition.  The  shock  of  seeing  you  might  kill  her.  Be 
patient  and  considerate,  Hall." 

"  I  cannot." 

"You  must." 

"No." 

She  turned  away  with  clouded  eyes.  The  next  minute 
the  little  bell  summoned  her  peremptorily. 


246 


"  Constance !" 

"  Yes !" 

"  You  may  go.     Take  the  1.30  boat,  and  drive  over 
from  Alameda." 
„"  Thank  you.     All  right." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

YET  when  she  reached  the  deck  she  saw  Kenyon's  un- 
mistakable form  leaning  against  the  railing.  His  hat  was 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  but  he  saw  her  approaching, 
and  came  forward  at  once  to  meet  her. 

"  You  are  incorrigible,  Hall,"  she  murmured,  reproach- 
fully. 

"•No;  but  your  demand  was  unreasonable.  I  tried, 
but  could  not  stay  away.  I  will  not  be  impetuous,  I 
promise — I  will  wait  till  you  call  me.  You  can't  expect 
any  more." 

"  Well,"  she  sighed,  as  she  seated  herself. 

Just  as  the  boat  moved  away  Brunton  emerged  from 
the  cabin.  He  started  at  sight  of  Kenyon.  "  I  thought 
you  would  be  alone,"  he  explained,  apologetically.  "  Ken- 
yon  said  you  were  going  over  first.  I  thought  I  might 
possibly  be  of  some  assistance  in  procuring  a  vehicle  at 
Alameda." 

She  smiled  her  thanks,  having  learned  that  he  pre- 
ferred such  quiet  acceptance  of  anything  he  might  wish 
to  do  for  her.  They  spoke  very  little  as  they  steamed 
over  the  sunlit  bay.  Kenyon's  jaw  seemed  locked ;  he 
stood  the  entire  distance,  looking  out  upon  the  horizon. 
They  boarded  the  Alameda  train  still  in  this  strange 
speechlessness.  G-eoffrey  secured  a  carriage  for  them  at 
the  station. 

"  Come  with  us,"  begged  Constance,  in  an  aside. 
"  We  don't  know  where  or  to  what  we  are  going." 


248 


So  the  three  sat  within  when  the  horses  headed  east- 
ward. Over  the  autumn-decked  country  they  sped,  the 
horses  making  good  time,  the  occupants  quite  insensible 
to  the  glowing  Indian -summer  about  them.  The  pace 
slackened.  They  crossed  the  ramshackle  bridges.  Pres- 
ently Constance  looked  out  upon  a  green  island,  with  its 
long  sandy  beach,  the  name  of  which  had  never  reached 
her  hearing.  The  least  known  of  our  possessions  are 
often  those  nearest  home.  Few  of  us  know  the  sound 
of  our  own  voices.  But  the  beauty  of  the  waving  feath- 
ery asparagus  -  plant,  rising  knee-high,  with  its  bright 
scarlet  berries,  transforming  the  island  into  a  sea  of  un- 
dulating, tender  green,  was  quite  lost  upon  her.  Great 
shadows  encircled  her  eyes,  her  face  was  weary,  but  she 
gave  no  further  sign  of  her  excessive  agitation.  The 
driver  paused  to  make  some  inquiries,  and  soon  struck 
into  the  road  leading  northward.  They  passed,  one  after 
another,  the  quaint  farm-houses,  many  of  them  showing 
traces  of  great  age  in  their  weather-beaten  frames,  and, 
anon,  they  came  to  a  stand-still. 

The  driver  got  down  and  opened  the  door.  "  This  is 
the  Johnson  farm-house,"  he  announced. 

She  looked  toward  Kenyon  in  sudden  dependence. 
"  I  will  walk  up  to  the  door  with  you,"  he  assured  her, 
steadily,  through  pale  lips.  He  alighted,  and  assisted 
her  with  a  firm  hand. 

"  Courage  !"  called  Brunton,  softly,  after  them. 

As  they  walked  up  the  short  mignonette -bordered 
walk  they  perceived  a  white-haired,  sweet-faced  old  lady 
sunning  herself  on  the  porch,  in  a  great,  cane-bottomed 
rocking-chair. 

She  arose  as  they  drew  near,  and  Constance  watched 


249 


the  chair  swinging  slowly  back  and  forth  till  it  grew 
quite  still  before  she  took  a  step  in  advance  of  Kenyon. 
The  old  lady  looked  with  surprise  at  the  evident  discom- 
posure of  this  stately  young  woman. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Johnson  ?"  finally  came  the  question. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  was  the  cheerful  response. 

"  Have  you — does  Mrs.  Hall  Kenyon  live  with  you  ?" 

"  Eh  ?" 

"  Does  Mrs.  Hall  Kenyon  live  with  you  ?" 

"  Not  as  I  know  of,  my  dear." 

Constance  turned  a  perturbed  look  upon  Kenyon,  and 
he  came  to  her  side. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  in  slow  courtesy,  which,  added  to 
the  extreme  pallor  of  his  handsome  face,  impressed  her 
singularly — "perhaps  you  do  not  know  her  by  that  name. 
She  is  a  slight  young  woman,  with  brown  hair  and  gray 
eyes." 

The  old  lady's  face  flushed  prettily.  "  Yes,"  she  nod- 
ded ;  "  she's  in-doors." 

"  I  am  her  sister,"  said  Constance.    "  Is — is  she  well?" 

"  Yes,  she's  well — now." 

"  You  mean — " 

"Never  mind,  dearie.  It  was  after  all  the  writing;  but 
Mother  Johnson  and  Dr.  Bronson  pulled  her  through. 
Brain-trouble,  he  called  it;  heart-trouble,  I  called  it." 

"Will,"  she  turned  her  back  upon  Kenyon — "will 
you  tell  her  I  have  come  ?  Say,  *  Constance  is  here,' 
but  do  not  mention  any  other.  Tell  her  gently, 
please." 

As  she  moved  into  the  house  Constance  turned  to 
Kenyon. 

"  Hush  !"  he  commanded. 


250 


Neither  spoke  further.  Mrs.  Johnson  came  pattering 
out  about  five"  minutes  later  with  a  bright  smile  of 
welcome  invitation.  "  She's  been  expecting  you,"  she 
chirruped.  "  You  can  go.  It's  the  third  room  to  the 
right.  But  be  quiet ;  she's  not  used  to  noise  yet." 

Constance  walked  in,  and  turned  in  the  direction  indi- 
cated. She  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  door,  then 
moved  the  knob  and  entered.  She  stepped  into  a  flood 
of  mellow  sunlight. 

"  Constance  !"  she  heard  Eleanor  cry  softly. 

Constance  moved  toward  her  with  outheld  arms.  She 
sank  upon  her  knees  before  her,  and  laid  her  arms  about 
her. 

"  My  child  !"  she  said. 

And  presently  the  tender  mother-arms  of  the  older 
sister  fell  apart,  and  she  looked  deep  into  Eleanor's  face 
as  she  knelt  before  her.  A  veil  of  strange  peace  seemed 
to  enshroud  and  shimmer  about  her,  her  eyes  looked  out 
in  pleading  humility  from  the  marble  pallor  of  her  face, 
her  bright  hair,  slightly  loosened,  detracting  from  its 
fragile  delicacy. 

"It  is  the  woman-look  —  the  sorrow-look,"  thought 
Constance,  as  though  answering  the  mystery  of  the  beau- 
tiful young  face.  And  then  she  met  the  sad  eyes  fixed 
beseechingly  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  Constance,"  she  cried,  brokenly,  as  her  sister 
rose  and  seated  herself  in  a  chair,  "  I  had  to  do  it !  I 
had  to  do  it !" 

"  All  these  long  months  ?"  chided  the  gentle  voice. 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  with  intensity.  "  All  these  long 
months.  I  did  it  to  save  him." 

"  Ah,  but  you  almost  wrecked  him." 


251 


"  I  know ;  that  was  what  I  wanted — I  wanted  him  to 
suffer.  It  was  the  only  caustic  that  could  cure."  Con- 
stance gazed  at  her  pale  earnestness,  scarcely  compre- 
hending. 

"  See,"  she  went  on ;  "  he  was  not  the  only  victim  of 
this  thoughtless  freak  of  his.  I  am  not  a  patient  woman, 
and  in  my  first  frenzy  I  decided  to  show  him  that  he  had 
taught  me  a  game  at  which  two  could  play.  Then  you 
stepped  in  with  your  tender  reasoning,  and  I  hesitated 
over  the  possible  scandal  it  might  create.  But  afterwards 
reason  gave  me  another  point  of  view.  This  recurrence 
had  to  be  stopped,  and  I  was  the  only  one  to  save  him 
— I,  in  my  love  for  him.  So  I  hurt  him,  willingly  though 
painedly.  To  shock  him  almost  to  death  was  his  only 
salvation  from  such  a  violent  disorder.  I  wanted  to  live 
a  normal,  peaceful  life,  like  other  women.  I  knew  it  was 
possible,  for  I  knew  he  loved  me  ! 

"  To  tell  you  would  have  been  folly ;  you  would  have 
soon  told  him — too  soon,  in  your  compassion.  I  could 
not  consider  you.  We  —  I  never  did.  To  me,  *  Con- 
stance '  means  *  endurance.'  I  knew  beforehand  of 
your  forgiveness,  love."  She  rose,  almost  tottered  over 
to  Constance,  and,  sinking  upon  the  low  cassock  before 
her,  leaned  her  arms  upon  her  knees.  "And  as  for  his," 
she  murmured,  with  "  starry  eyes,"  "  I  did  not  fear ;  I 
had  my  day-dream:  the  book — our  book."  And  Con- 
stance, looking  at  her,  ceased  to  chide. 

"  How  did  you  know  of  this  unheard-of  place  ?"  she 
asked,  instead. 

"  I  had  read  a  description  of  it  once.  I  remembered 
my  surprise  over  its  existence.  I  thought,  even  then,  it 
would  prove  a  good  hiding-place  for  one  seeking  soli- 


252 


tude.  It  recurred  to  me  as  in  a  flash  that  night.  I  came 
straight  to  it  and  found — Mrs.  Johnson." 

Her  head  drooped  till  it  rested  upon  Constance's 
knees.  "  Constance,"  she  whispered,  "  has  he  read  it — 
the  book  ?" 

"  Yes.  Tell  me  about  that,  Eleanor.  It  is  so  wonder- 
fully intimate,  and  yet  —  can  that  woman  be  Eleanor 
Kenyon  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  You  were  surprised,  perhaps ;  but  why 
should  you  have  been  ?"  She  paused,  as  though  her 
thought  had  plunged  into  profound  depths. 

"  Go  on,"  urged  Constance.    "  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  what  led  me  to  do  it  ?  I  had  always 
intended  to  make  use  of  it  some  time,  but  not  as  I  have 
done.  It  was  only  the  common  story  of  a  woman's 
picking  up  a  thread  and  weaving  a  romance  out  of  it.  I 
thought  to  use  it  some  day  as  a  medium  of  confession. 
Day-dreaming  is  the  occupation  of  only  hungry  souls, 
not  of  the  truly  satisfied.  I  used  to  pore  over  it  as  one 
does  over  a  loved  possession  ;  it  was  so  splendid,  yet  so 
hard.  I  wanted  to  make  it  less  artistic,  more  human  !  I 
began  to  annotate ;  from  annotating  I  came  to  strike  out 
here,  to  add  there  ;  and  finally — finally,  Constance,  in  my 
extremity,  I  found  the  way — I  wrote  between  the  lines  ! 
I  wrote  my  heart  out.  I  have  written  there  what  few 
women  would  care  to  reveal ;  but  it  is  written,  not 
spoken.  It  was  easy  persuading  his  publishers  to  the 
secrecy,  because  they  had  read  the  first  chapters  before 
he  ever  came  to  San  Francisco.  They  thought  my  re- 
quest some  little  wifely  surprise. 

"  Sometimes,  after  1  knew  he  would  read  it,  I  have 
hidden  my  face  at  the  memory  of  the  revelation,  but  in 


253 


stronger  moments  I  was  glad."  There  was  a  faint  pause. 
Then,  "Does  he  forgive  me,  Constance?"  she  whispered, 
almost  inaudibly. 

"  He  loves  you,"  came  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

"  Help  me  to  keep  him,"  she  entreated,  with  sudden 
fear. 

"  You  do  not  need  me  now,"  returned  Constance,  ris- 
ing, and  looking  down  at  her.  "  You  have  him — and  the 
future !" 

Eleanor  looked  toward  her,  listening.  In  the  shadowy 
room  the  stately  figure  rose  like  a  dim  column,  distant 
and  alone.  Her  voice,  dim  too,  carried  a  sense  of  some- 
thing lonely  and  apart. 

She  stooped  abruptly  and  kissed  her.  "  Good-bye," 
she  said,  lightly. 

"  You  are  not  going !"  cried  Eleanor,  catching  at  her 
gown  in  bewilderment. 

"In  another  minute  you  will  forget  all  about  me — 
when  some  one  else  comes  in.  Now  then,  let  me  go, 
dear." 

"  Constance !" 

"Yes,  he  is  here  —  waiting.  Why  should  you  be 
afraid  ?  Sit  there — so.  Come,  let  me  go." 

Two  minutes  later  Kenyon  entered  the  room. 

Brunton  had  gone,  Mrs.  Johnson  told  Constance ;  he 
had  hailed  a  wagon  bound  for  Alameda,  and  left  the  car- 
riage for  the  others.  She  stood  for  a  while  talking  to 
the  good  woman,  and  then,  with  a  message  to  those  with- 
in, went  out  at  the  gate. 

A  sense  of  tranquil  peace  was  upon  her.  She  seemed 
scarcely  to  feel  the  motion  of  carriage  or  train  as  she 


254 


was  borne  homeward.  On  the  boat  she  sat  in  the  sweet 
evening  air  as  if  soothed  by  gentle  Ariels.  The  strain 
came  from  the  harpist  as  from  some  distant  sphere. 

When  she  reached  home  Marjorie  and  Grace  came 
bounding  out  to  meet  her,  and  she  had  much  to  tell  them. 

"  Are  you  tired,  Constance  ?"  asked  Grace,  as  she 
paused  once. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  surprise.     "  Why  ?" 

"  You  speak  so  slowly — as  though  you  were  dreaming." 

"  Yes  ?"  she  returned. 

Later  old  Mr.  Glynn  came  in  to  borrow  Grace.  His 
wife  wanted  Constance  to  lend  her  to  them  for  the  night. 
Grace  hesitated,  divided  between  two  loves.  But  Con- 
stance told  her  to  go,  and  presently  she  was  alone  with 
the  child  Marjorie.  She  went  up-stairs  with  her,  linger- 
ing oy^er  the  task  of  putting  her  to  bed,  the  child  prat- 
tling, prattling  as  usual,  till  she  dropped  off  to  sleep. 
And  the  house  was  quite  still — and  Constance  was  alone. 

In  the  darkened  room  she  went  over  and  sat  down  by 
the  window.  A  fair  young  moon  hung  upon  the  spire 
of  the  church,  as  though  it  loved  it  and  belonged  to  it. 
It  seemed  to  glow  to-night  with  an  unfamiliar  glory,  and 
to  look  in  upon  her  with  unrecognizing,  alien  eyes,  as 
though  in  its  darkened  quarters  lay  a  secret  too  deep 
and  sacred  even  for  Constance's  reading.  Yet  she  and 
the  moon  had  long  been  friends.  They  had  often  kept 
vigil  together.  "  It  is  the  contrast,"  she  thought,  with  a 
cold,  icy  feeling,  and  she  could  not  stay  the  tears  patter- 
ing slowly  down  upon  the  unresponsive  window-sill. 

The  singular  thought  enveloped  her  that  some  one, 
velvet-shod,  had  softly  closed  a  door  upon  her  and  left 
her  alone  in  space ;  that  at  the  other  side  were  voices 


255 


that  she  knew,  voices  that  laughed  and  sang,  and  made 
merry,  and  moved  ever  farther  away  from  her ;  and  ever 
with  the  voices  of  youth  and  gladness  came  one  like  a 
wind  sighing  in  accompaniment,  "  Never  mind,  oh,  Con- 
stance, never  mind !"  but  even  that  fainted  in  distance. 
And  as  the  dream  voices  floated  into  silence,  a  slow,  as- 
sured ring  of  the  bell  took  up  the  sound  like  an  echo. 

"  Geoffrey's  ring,"  she  thought,  and  she  went  down  to 
meet  him. 

"  As  inquisitive  as  ever,"  he  said,  as  she  came  in.  "  I 
want  to  know  all  about  it." 

"  You  mean  of  Eleanor,  of  course,"  she  said,  with  a 
faint  smile,  as  they  seated  themselves.  "  She  has  changed 
somewhat." 

"  Revised  for  the  better,  I  hope." 

"  As  he  is,"  she  returned,  simply,  and  then,  without 
further  parley,  she  told  him  Eleanor's  story.  He  made 
no  comment  when  she  finished. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said. 

"  You  have  been  crying,"  he  responded,  with  sharp 
irrelevance. 

"  Don't,  please,"  she  faltered,  drawing  in  a  deep-lying 
sob. 

"  Are  you  cold,  that  you  shudder  so  ?  See,  your  fire 
is  going  out ;  there  goes  the  last  flame,  Constance." 

"  Let  it  go,"  she  said,  looking  into  the  white  ashes. 
"  There  are  many  bright,  warm  things  we  must  let  go 
from  us  without  a  word  or  a  staying  hand.  Only  ashes, 
the  memory  of  the  fire,  remain  with  us." 

"  You  speak  sadly,"  he  said,  with  some  pain.  "  Is 
there  anything  you — regret — to-night  ?" 

"  To-night,  Geoffrey  ?    Is  not  my  Eleanor  the  happiest 


256 


woman  in  the  world  to-night?"  She  looked  above  and 
beyond  him,  a  pale  content  resting  upon  her  counte- 
nance. Brunton,  his  head  sunk  in  his  hand,  watched  her 
silently.  "  What  should  I  regret  ?"  she  went  on,  quietly. 
"  There  is  Eleanor,  happy  with  her  beloved  husband ; 
Grace  is  with  the  Glynns,  absorbed  in  bright  visions  of 
the  future ;  Edith  is  making  us  proud  of  her  with  her 
brilliant  records  ;  Marjorie  is  safe  and  warm  and  well  just 
within  call,  and — yes,  my  bird  is  gone.  But  God  knows 
I  could  not  help  that,  Geoffrey !"  She  ended  her  ac- 
counting with  a  sharp  cry. 

"  Hush,  Constance  ;  who  could  doubt  it?  Who  would 
question  you  ?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  You  were  lonesome,"  he  said,  bluntly. 

"  Perhaps.  Mr.  Glynn  borrowed  Grace,  and  Marjorie 
fell  asleep,  and  there  is  no  one  else." 

"  No.  And  pretty  soon  you  will  give  Grace  '  for 
keeps,'  as  Marjorie  says,  to  the  Glynns,  and  there  will 
be  many  evenings  when  Marjorie  will  be  in  bed,  and 
there  will  be  left  but  a  lonely,  companionless  woman.  Is 
it  right,  Constance  ?" 

"  Right  ?     But  how  can  it  be  otherwise  ?" 

"  How  ?  You  know  how.  Come,  be  reasonable.  I — 
we  will  not  speak  of  love.  Let  us  be  practical ;  that  is 
the  way  you  like  to  look  at  things,  I  know.  Well,  then, 
here  are  you  and  I,  a  quiet  man  and  woman,  who  need 
each  other.  I  need  you,  Constance ;  you  need  me — you 
have  often  needed  me — and  now,  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
having  some  one  to  talk  to  when  the  evenings  are  long, 
you  need  me  doubly.  Come,  dear,  why  should  you  re- 
sist?" 


257 


"  You  forget  my  vow,  Geoffrey." 

"  No.  I  remember  it  distinctly.  You  said  you  would 
never  leave  the  children.  Well,  the  children  have  ab- 
solved you  by  leaving  you  themselves,  each  in  turn.  Of 
course  Edith  will  return  to  you,  but  she  will  be  a  wom- 
an ;  and  there  is  Marjorie.  But  will  you  tell  me,  Great- 
heart,  that  you  will  not  always  find  time  and  love  enough 
for  that  one  mite,  no  matter  what  the  new  life  might  ask 
of  you  ?  Be  practical,  Constance."  A  pale  smile  lit  up 
his  face  while  he  spoke  as  to  a  child. 

She  brushed  a  hair  from  her  forehead  with  a  nervous 
gesture.  "Will  you  tell  me  why  you  have  never  plead- 
ed in  court  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  fleeting  smile. 

"  Because  I  have  never  had  a  case  in  which  I  was  so 
personally  interested." 

"  Geoffrey,  dear,  why  will  you  persist  in  making  me 
hurt  you  so  !  You  could  not  take  from  me  or  divide  my 
responsibility.  Ah,  Geoffrey — my  mother's  eyes — they 
will  not  let  me  !" 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  think  your  mother  loved  you 
less  than  her  other  children  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  she  answered,  sharply,  her  face 
turning  deadly  pale. 

"  You  imply  it,  then,  by  wishing  to  uphold  a  vow 
which  is  no  longer  tenable  in  the  eyes  of  any  one  who 
loves  you.  Have  you  been  harboring  that  cruel  accusa- 
tion against  her  all  these  years  ?" 

"  Be  still,  Geoffrey,"  she  commanded,  imperiously. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  sternly,  "  I  will  not  be  still.  I 
love  you  too  dearly  to  allow  you  to  make  yourself  miser- 
able with  such  a  false  belief.  Did  she  not  trust  you? 
Why,  Constance,  these  others  were  as  nothing  to  her 

IT 


258 


next  the  light  in  which  she  held  you.  Do  you  think  if 
she  could  speak  to  you  she  would  not  plead  with  me  ? 
Do  you  think  she  would  not  say,  *  Surely,  Constance, 
now  you  can  let  Geoffrey  take  care  of  you  ?'  "  He  arose 
as  though  to  control  himself.  "  Of  course,"  he  contin- 
ued, with  a  short  laugh,  "  if  you  could  not  tolerate  me — 
I  have  been  talking  like  an  idiot.  But  I  won't  believe 
you  don't  care  for  me,  or  that  I  could  not  make  you 
happy,  and  I  suppose  I'll  talk  that  way  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter  whenever  I  get  the  chance.  I'll  worry  you 
into  it  yet,  if  I  can.  But  there  !  You  are  pale  and  tired, 
and  I  have  talked  enough." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his,  and  looked  long  into 
her  troubled  eyes.  "Good -night,"  he  said,  tenderly. 
"  Don't  rise.  Think  it  over  to-night — no,  don't  think. 
Sleep.  You  have  thought  too  much  already.  Dream 
over  it,  love,  and  try  to  make  a  happy  dream  for  both 
of  us.  Good-night,  Constance." 

"  Good  -  night,"  she  answered,  lingeringly.  "Good- 
night, Geoffrey." 


THE    END 


BY  MAEY  E.  WILKINS. 


PEMBROKE.     A  Novel.      Illustrated.     16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  50. 

JANE  FIELD.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     16rao,  Cloth, 

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YOUNQ  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.     Illustrated. 

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A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.     16mo, 

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We  have  long  admired  Miss  Wilkins  as  one  of  the  most  pow- 
erful, original,  and  profound  writers  of  America;  but  we  are 
bound  to  say  that  "Pembroke"  is  entitled  to  a  higher  distinc- 
tion than  the  critics  have  awarded  to  Miss  Wilkins's  earlier 
productions.  As  a  picture  of  New  England  life  and  character, 
as  a  story  of  such  surpassing  interest  that  he  who  begins  is 
compelled  to  finish  it,  as  a  work  of  art  without  a  fault  or  a  de- 
ficiency, we  cannot  see  how  it  could  possibly  be  improved. — N. 
Y.  Sun. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set 
them  apart  in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. 
— Literary  World,  Boston. 

Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  ac- 
quaintance and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet 
human  interest  she  feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in 
the  simple,  common,  homely  people  she  draws. — Springfield 
Republican. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSOK 


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JUPITER  LIGHTS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
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There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities.—  Jewish  Advo- 
cate, N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolsou  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de- 
lineation of  her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  life.  — Jewish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau- 
reate.— Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style, 
and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development 
of  a  story  is  very  remarkable — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is  all 
her  own ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen- 
sation, and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day — a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time. — Whitehall 
Review,  London.  

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

Jglf*'  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  T>y 
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